Keeper by Greg Rucka

lives.
    “It’s been going on for so long now,” Rubin said. “It seems like we’ve been doing this job forever.”
    “Eleven days isn’t long,” I said.
    “For you, maybe. I feel like every day is the same. Not that they are, of course, I know that, and if I try really hard, I can remember that, too. But the fact that I have to try really hard to begin with is what bothers me.”
    “Have you gotten any sleep?”
    “What, tonight? About two hours.”
    “Go to bed. I’ll cover until Natalie gets back with the doctor.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “You can only do so much. Get some rest.”
    “You don’t think I’m paranoid, do you?”
    “Paranoia is our game, Rubin.”
    He smiled and said, “See you in a few hours.” He started back into the apartment, then stopped. “Katie shouldn’t be a problem when she gets up. She’s having her period, now, though, so make sure she changes her pads. She forgets sometimes.”
     
    I gave Rubin five minutes to settle in before I turned back inside myself, going straight to the house phone and ringing the lobby. Philippe the doorman answered immediately, and I told him what I wanted him to do.
    “I shouldn’t leave my post,” he told me.
    “This is a favor for Dr. Romero.”
    He listened again, then agreed, and I went back out on the patio to watch.
    It took him four minutes to lock up, get the coffees, and cross the street. Philippe offered one cup to the other doorman, and they stood side by side for a moment, drinking and talking. Philippe told a joke, with broad hand gestures, and the other doorman laughed. They talked some more, and then the other doorman nodded and went inside, leaving Philippe alone on the sidewalk. His uniform looked pink in the light under the awning.
    The other doorman came back, told Philippe what he wanted to know. They shook hands, and though I couldn’t see it, I was sure Philippe slipped the other man some money.
    I went back to the house phone, and picked it up as it rang.
    “The apartment is owned by Mrs. Batina Friendly,” Philippe told me. “She shares it with her dog. She’s out taking a walk right now.”
    Which was what I had thought, but it pays to be certain. “How much do I owe you?” I asked him.
    “Twenty bucks,” Philippe said.
    “Thanks.”
    “No problem.”
     
    Dr. Romero had set out two deck chairs on the patio, white enamel paint with orange rubber slats, and after Rubin left I sat in one of them, waiting for the sunrise.
    While I watched the street, I wondered what Katie’s dreams were like. She wasn’t as affected by her Down’s as some people I had met, but she was more impaired than others. Talking to her, it always seemed as if we understood intention without sharing language. The only reason anyone assumed her thoughts to be simple and childish was because she had difficulty in communicating. Did she dream about Bill Bixby and the Incredible Hulk? Rubin’s frankness about Katie’s menstrual cycle had surprised me; it was stupid, but I hadn’t realized she would ovulate. At sixteen, Katie Romero was growing into the body of a woman and certainly had the growing desires of one, as well. If her fantasy life was active, who could blame her? Ultimately, she was alone, with no one to share herself with completely, because words would always get in the way.
    The sky continued to color, and it was just before six when the phone rang inside. It hadn’t been ringing for long, I know, but for a moment my memory had a gap I couldn’t fill, and I answered it with the fear and guilt of someone who may have nodded off to sleep.
    “Atticus?”
    “How’s it look, Natalie?”
    “Someone tried to crowbar the back door, mangled the locking plate, but didn’t get inside. I’m trying to get Felice out of here, but she won’t leave until she’s positive that nothing is missing. Dale’s with her, now. Fowler’s coming down, so we’re waiting on him right now. How’s things there?”
    “Quiet. Rubin