“So they said.”
“But you’re suggesting something different.”
“Clearly.”
“Murder.”
“A reasonable inference.”
“Maybe I don’t believe you. You sound paranoid, a fantasist. Maybe that death was something you’re imagining you had something to do with. I think I should hang up now.”
“Your choice, Doctor. Not a wise one, for someone who has spent their life collecting information, but still, if that’s what you think will help you…”
Jeremy did not hang up. He felt outmaneuvered. He glanced down at his list of psychological domains. Useless, he thought.
“And my murder, that will make it complete?”
“That’s an inference you are drawing, Doctor.”
Jeremy wrote: Not paranoid. A sociopath?
He thought: Not like any sociopath I’ve ever known. At least-I don’t think so.
“I’ve called the police. They’re all over this…”
“Doctor, why would you lie to me? Why don’t you make it a better story: There’s cops here now, listening in, tracing this call, and they’re going to be surrounding me at any second… Isn’t that better?”
Jeremy felt stupid. He wondered: How does he know? Is he watching me? A shaft of cold fear dropped through him, and he looked wildly around the room, almost panicked. The caller’s steady mocking tones bought him back to the conversation.
“Perhaps you should talk to the police. It will give you a sense of security. Foolish, but maybe it will make you feel better. How long do you suspect that sense will last?”
“You’re patient.”
“People who hurry to collect their debts invariably settle for less on the dollar than they deserve, don’t you think, Doctor?”
Jeremy wrote down: No fear of authorities. He thought he should follow up on that.
“The cops-suppose they catch you…”
Another laugh. “I don’t think so, Doctor. You don’t give me enough credit. You should.”
Jeremy hesitated as he wrote Conceited. He shut his eyes briefly, thinking hard. He decided to take another chance, and to add a slight mocking tone in his own voice.
“So, Mister Who’s at Fault, just how much time do I have left?”
A pause.
“I like that name. It’s appropriate.”
“How much time?”
“Days. Weeks. Months. Maybe, maybe, maybe. How much time does anyone have?”
A hesitation, coupled with that same humorless laugh.
“What makes you think, Doctor, that I’m not outside your door right now?”
And then the line went dead.
10
There was irritating Muzak playing in the elevator as Moth and Andy Candy rode up to the eleventh floor. Both were nervous and the background noise rubbed their thoughts the wrong way. It was an orchestral reinterpretation of some ancient popular rock tune, and both of them hummed along briefly, neither putting a title to the sound.
“Beatles?” Andy Candy asked abruptly. She was on edge, wondering whether she might be tumbling toward obsession along with Moth. When she stole glances in his direction, it seemed as if he wore the look of a mountain climber hanging dangerously from a cliff: desperate not to fall and determined to find a way to lift himself to safety, no matter how frayed his ropes were and how loose the knots holding him in place might be. She could sense wind currents sweeping her along and wasn’t sure she should trust them.
“Yes. No. Close. Maybe,” Moth replied. “Long before our time.”
“But memorable,” she responded. “Stones. Beatles. The Who. Buffalo Springfield. Jimi Hendrix. All the stuff my mom and dad used to listen to. They used to dance in the kitchen…” Her voice trailed off and she wanted to say, And now she has to dance alone because he’s dead, but she did not. Instead, she continued, “Now they’re just Muzak.”
The music distracted Moth. He was unsure how he would react when he saw his uncle’s longtime lover. He felt as if he’d completely let everyone down and he was about to be reminded of his inadequacies and failures. But he also didn’t know where else to begin his search.
The elevator made a swooshing sound as they reached their floor.
“Here we are,” Moth said. Except he knew it wasn’t where they needed to be. Andy had said to look where the police wouldn’t look-but the only places he could think to start were the same places the police had already considered. Or trampled, Moth decided.
“I’m pretty sure it was the Beatles,” Andy Candy said, stepping out. Her voice was close to fierce, although she had nothing obvious to be angry about. “ ‘Lady Madonna.’ Only screwed up completely with mushy strings and oboes and things.”
The door to Moth’s uncle’s apartment opened before they had a chance to knock. A slight man with sandy hair tinged with gray at the edges smiled at the two of them. But it wasn’t truly a smile of greeting as much as an upturn at the corners of the mouth that reflected more pain than joy.
“Hello, Teddy,” Moth said quietly.
“Ah, Moth,” the man answered. “It’s good to see you again. We missed you at the…”
He stopped there.
“This is Andrea,” Moth continued.
Teddy held out his hand. “The famous Andy Candy,” he said. “I’ve heard about you from Moth. Not much, but just enough, a few years back, and you are far more lovely than he ever let on. Moth, you should learn to be more descriptive.” He bowed slightly as he shook Andy Candy’s hand. “Come on in.” He gestured an entry. “Sorry for the mess.”
As they walked inside, they were met with a sheet of bright light. The apartment looked out over Biscayne Bay and Moth could see a huge, ungainly cruise ship slowly making its way down Government Cut like some overweight tourist, lurching past the high-end, rich folks’ playground on Fisher Island. The pale blue of the bay seemed to blend seamlessly into the horizon. The high-rises on Miami Beach and the causeway out to Key Biscayne bracketed the water world. Fishing charters or pleasure boats cut paths through the glistening bay, leaving white foam trails that dissipated rapidly in the light chop of waves. The bright sunshine poured into the apartment through floor-to-ceiling sliding doors that led to a balcony. Moth lifted his hand to shade his eyes, almost as if someone had flashed a light in his face.
Teddy saw this.
“Yeah. Kind of drove us crazy. You desperately want the view, but you don’t want to be blinded every morning by that sun coming up in the east. Your uncle tried a bunch of different shades, I mean he must have called up a half-dozen different interior decorators. He got tired of having to re-cover the couches because they would fade like in minutes. And he had a beautiful Karel Apfel lithograph on the wall that got damaged by the sunlight. Odd, don’t you think? The thing that brings us here to Miami causes all sorts of unexpected problems. At least he didn’t have to go see a dermatologist and have skin cancers cut off his face and forearms, because for years he liked to take his coffee out onto the porch every morning before heading to work.”
Moth looked away from the view toward packing boxes half-filled with art from the walls, kitchen stuff, and books.
“Actually, we liked to take our morning coffee out there.” This was said with a slight quaver. “I can’t stay here any longer, Moth,” Teddy said. “Too hard. Too many memories.”
“Uncle Ed-” Moth began.
“I know what you’re going to say, Moth,” Teddy interrupted. “You don’t think he killed himself. I have trouble believing that as well. So, in a way, I’m with you, Moth. He was happy. Hell, we were happy. Especially in the last few years. His practice was great; I mean, he found his patients to be intriguing, interesting, and he was helping them, which is all he ever wanted. And he didn’t care who knew about me-which is a big deal for shrinks, let me tell you. He was just so happy to be out, you know. We’d both known so many guys who couldn’t reconcile who they are with family, friends, their work… Those are the guys that drink themselves to death-which is what Ed was doing so many years ago-or drug themselves or shoot themselves. All the guys who get overwhelmed by a lie that becomes their life. Ed was at peace-that’s what he told me, when…”