floor, three above hers. Now alone in the elevator, I pushed
L
for lobby. I didn’t know if Matt was in our room, and I didn’t want to know, until I’d done one more errand, even though it was already past daylight.
On the street again, I rewrapped my old-fashioned, plain wool scarf around my neck and headed north to Lori’s building on West Forty-eighth. Matt had told me Lori was going to spend another night withher friend in Queens. I had no intention of going up in her elevator, but I wanted another look around the outside area, without Lori, and without a uniformed sentry.
Rounding the corner from Eighth Avenue, I could see that there was no cop outside. I walked up the street, nearly as deserted as on Sunday morning since there were few theatrical performances on Monday evenings. I surveyed the building. When I got to the alley, I slipped in.
And someone else slipped out, knocking me into the brick wall. No apology, no
’scuse me.
Whoever had been in the alley didn’t want to share it with me. I caught only a shadowy glimpse of the person, the impression of someone tall and not too heavy. He or she had been close enough to leave a scent. Not the odor you’d expect from an alley dweller, however, but a fruity perfume. A woman? If so, a lady who worked out. I rubbed my shoulder where it had been smashed against the wall.
No time for nursing wounds, however. I had work to do.
I fished around in my purse for the small flashlight I always carried and tracked the edge of the alley closest to the building. Where the police might have missed a centimeter or two, I told myself. In my daydreams I saw a piece of incontrovertible evidence pointing toward the killer. A piece of his jacket with his name stenciled at the neck, the way we used to identify our lab coats. A gun or a knife (so what if Amber wasn’t shot or stabbed) with fingerprints matching a known killer of young women. A date book or a cell phone with fingerprints the same as above.
That was my imagination. In reality, all I saw was several bits of bright tinfoil, in red, gold, and green. From wrapping paper?
This is dumb,
I told myself, stuffing one tiny red scrap into an outside pocket of my purse. Maybe just not to leave empty-handed.
Or maybe I needed something to fill that empty spot where Karla’s letter had been.
Matt and I sat in our tiny hotel room, in what had become our conversation positions: Matt partly on the windowsill, partly on the heating and cooling unit, me on the bed. It was dark, and I could see into an office across West Forty-fifth Street where what appeared to be aholiday party was going on. Trays of food, bottles of wine or champagne, and everyone wearing red Santa hats. I had a flash of nostalgia as I remembered parties from my lab life around this time of year, when the chemists from the next building would whip up a nameless pink brew with a “secret” ingredient that we suspected was denatured alcohol. Old Rad (for radiation) Lab, it was called, and
drink at your own risk
was the operative greeting.
“We’re all set,” Matt said, magnanimously including himself in the problem that needed to be settled in the first place.
I took a breath that seemed to start at my feet and flow smoothly through my body. It was as if I’d been holding my breath for the whole day, and now pure oxygen was free to move around inside me. My stomach muscles, sore from tension, relaxed.
This must be what it feels like to hear a not-guilty verdict,
I thought.
Even though I am guilty.
“Do I want to know what you had to go through to make this go away?” I asked Matt.
“You do, but you’re not going to.” Matt seemed calm, so I guessed he hadn’t had to sell his soul, at least.
“I understand.” I figured Matt didn’t quite trust me not to do something like this again if I thought there was a simple procedure to get me off the hook.
I had so many questions for him. Was the Tina Miller Agency going to get its letter back?
L
for lobby. I didn’t know if Matt was in our room, and I didn’t want to know, until I’d done one more errand, even though it was already past daylight.
On the street again, I rewrapped my old-fashioned, plain wool scarf around my neck and headed north to Lori’s building on West Forty-eighth. Matt had told me Lori was going to spend another night withher friend in Queens. I had no intention of going up in her elevator, but I wanted another look around the outside area, without Lori, and without a uniformed sentry.
Rounding the corner from Eighth Avenue, I could see that there was no cop outside. I walked up the street, nearly as deserted as on Sunday morning since there were few theatrical performances on Monday evenings. I surveyed the building. When I got to the alley, I slipped in.
And someone else slipped out, knocking me into the brick wall. No apology, no
’scuse me.
Whoever had been in the alley didn’t want to share it with me. I caught only a shadowy glimpse of the person, the impression of someone tall and not too heavy. He or she had been close enough to leave a scent. Not the odor you’d expect from an alley dweller, however, but a fruity perfume. A woman? If so, a lady who worked out. I rubbed my shoulder where it had been smashed against the wall.
No time for nursing wounds, however. I had work to do.
I fished around in my purse for the small flashlight I always carried and tracked the edge of the alley closest to the building. Where the police might have missed a centimeter or two, I told myself. In my daydreams I saw a piece of incontrovertible evidence pointing toward the killer. A piece of his jacket with his name stenciled at the neck, the way we used to identify our lab coats. A gun or a knife (so what if Amber wasn’t shot or stabbed) with fingerprints matching a known killer of young women. A date book or a cell phone with fingerprints the same as above.
That was my imagination. In reality, all I saw was several bits of bright tinfoil, in red, gold, and green. From wrapping paper?
This is dumb,
I told myself, stuffing one tiny red scrap into an outside pocket of my purse. Maybe just not to leave empty-handed.
Or maybe I needed something to fill that empty spot where Karla’s letter had been.
Matt and I sat in our tiny hotel room, in what had become our conversation positions: Matt partly on the windowsill, partly on the heating and cooling unit, me on the bed. It was dark, and I could see into an office across West Forty-fifth Street where what appeared to be aholiday party was going on. Trays of food, bottles of wine or champagne, and everyone wearing red Santa hats. I had a flash of nostalgia as I remembered parties from my lab life around this time of year, when the chemists from the next building would whip up a nameless pink brew with a “secret” ingredient that we suspected was denatured alcohol. Old Rad (for radiation) Lab, it was called, and
drink at your own risk
was the operative greeting.
“We’re all set,” Matt said, magnanimously including himself in the problem that needed to be settled in the first place.
I took a breath that seemed to start at my feet and flow smoothly through my body. It was as if I’d been holding my breath for the whole day, and now pure oxygen was free to move around inside me. My stomach muscles, sore from tension, relaxed.
This must be what it feels like to hear a not-guilty verdict,
I thought.
Even though I am guilty.
“Do I want to know what you had to go through to make this go away?” I asked Matt.
“You do, but you’re not going to.” Matt seemed calm, so I guessed he hadn’t had to sell his soul, at least.
“I understand.” I figured Matt didn’t quite trust me not to do something like this again if I thought there was a simple procedure to get me off the hook.
I had so many questions for him. Was the Tina Miller Agency going to get its letter back?
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