Eye Sleuth (12 page)

Five

I winced my way up the long, uncarpeted flights of stairs to my apartment. Living in a fourth-floor walk-up means I don’t need to go to a gym but tonight I could’ve done without the exercise. My muscles signaled major discomfort with each movement. Sighing in relief, I unlocked the door––home safe. Ivan and Chance, my two brother cats, stood waiting, tails in lazy motion. They always hope for a treat like tuna and when they feel it’s overdue, they greet me at the door. Other times, my return is ignored. Cupboard love.

“Come on, guys,” I complained. “Let me in.”

Carefully I stepped between the weaving bodies. They pressed around my legs, I told them to stop, they ignored me. That was normal. What wasn’t normal was that Lanny hovered in the hell of a coma, the stranger shot to death in front of me had warned me of danger and Larissa and Marvin had rescued me from a mugger who’d torched the trash in the hallway after knocking me out. I could have died from smoke inhalation if my neighbors hadn’t reached me in time. Was that what Mary Sakamoto had warned me about? Was a killer after me? Why? And who was Mary Sakamoto? I still was certain I didn’t know her. And what, if anything did all this have to do with Lanny? Still no answers. I went through the apartment switching on light after light until everything was on. Tonight I needed to dispel the dark. I’ll be frugal and help save the environment tomorrow.

The cats stopped begging, smart enough to know treats weren’t coming. I checked for messages, nothing. Time to call Detective Riley at the Thirteenth Precinct. I was in luck, he was at his desk. My sore head was almost forgotten until I eased myself into a chair and the room tilted for a mad second.

“I need a professional ear. Something weird just happened. A guy pushed into the front hall after me when I got home, before the door closed, ” I coughed to cover the quaver in my voice. Bad move, my head throbbed. “He jumped me in the hall.”

Riley didn’t interrupt as I told him about my mugger-arsonist.

“My neighbors came in before the fire spread. They think it’s a wacko but this is the third time in a few days….” I stopped. Why go over the rotten litany? Riley knew the score. The pause at the end of the line was short.

“Too much of a coincidence,” Riley said. “I’ve not seen any reports about a mugger who plays with fire. If it’s arson, it may be your landlord is thinking of torching the building for the insurance dollars but the hallway’s not a choice location. I’m betting the three are related. The million dollar question is why? Can you describe the mugger?”

“All I saw was a shadowy figure when I looked to see who’d come in behind me. The hall light’s out as usual.”

“It’s rare a victim gets a good look at the mugger.”

Riley’s voice was reassuring and I almost started sniveling at his caring tone. Until this week, I’d never had a problem keeping a lid on my emotions in public, only letting loose when I’m alone. Now, my emotions were barely below the surface, made raw by Lanny’s coma.

“Listen, I doubt anyone will be sent out to investigate,” Riley continued. “It’s not murder and nothing was taken, right? But I’ll make a note in the case file. You did right to call. The more information we have, the more we can help. Never hesitate to call, agreed?”

“Agreed,” I said, crossing my fingers. It was a half-truth. I didn’t know what information I’d ever get that would help the police.

“How’re you feeling? Do you have a headache?”

“No, I’ve a bit of a bump on my head.” I was minimizing the truth, I felt as if I’d been through a cement mixer and that the room tilted if I didn’t move really slowly.

“That’s not good. How big’s the bump? Do you need to go to the hospital for an x-ray? Could be concussion. Is there anyone who can stay with you, wake you up every few hours? Standard procedure for a concussion.”

“That’s really not necessary. I’ve aloe vera juice in the fridge, that’ll help with the bump. My neighbor, Larissa, would’ve dragged me to the hospital if she thought it was necessary.” I didn’t add that if I’d had the slightest suspicion I had a serious head injury, I’d go to the hospital immediately. The truth was that my arms and legs hurt way more than the bump on my head.

Someone called Riley’s name.

“Uh oh, more night action in the city that never sleeps,” Dan said. “We’re short a coupla detectives. Gotta go.”

I hung up and sat thinking about the conversation. It actually felt like a decent connection with Riley, maybe because I couldn’t see his x-ray eyes. Connections are rare, even in New York with its millions. My social life had been nonexistent for months––OK, maybe it was over a year. Small wonder I often worked late, a habit my mother had often complained about.

“How will you meet someone when you’re stuck at your desk late most nights?” Her not too subtle hint that she wanted grandkids. Mom never mentioned my failed marriage to Charlie. He was a charmer, a computer whiz with an impressive job as director of IT at a Wall Street investment house. Trouble was, Charlie was an alcoholic and a dedicated gambler, though you never saw him drunk and he didn’t go to the racetrack. Online gambling was his obsession. Thirsty work, judging from the number of empty wine bottles stacked in our recycling bin.

Four months after we pledged to a life of bliss, Charlie took off for Las Vegas. Turned out Wall Street suggested he move on. Conveniently, one of the casinos needed their information technology directed. A long-distance relationship would be too challenging, Charlie explained, and when I arrived in Nevada for a divorce, he oozed charm. Charlie didn’t dampen my interest in guys, it’s just not easy to meet people, even in the Big Apple. Bars aren’t my scene, dating services can be weird and as for hooking up with someone over the Internet, I’ve heard too many hair-raising stories. It was too bad Dan Riley and I had met because of a murder.

When I got up, already the aches were less. I stood and thought about my reaction to the mugger. I’d panicked, I hadn’t been mentally ready. From here on, I’d be Annie Alert. I doublechecked the door locks and pulled the shades on each and every window.

Taking the cover off the bathtub, I turned the taps on full then gingerly eased out of my clothes. The toxic smell of burned plastic wafted around me as I stuffed everything I’d been wearing into the laundry bag and put the bulging bag by the door. I’d drop it off at the laundromat in the morning. I stepped gratefully into the hot bath but was too restless to soak for more than a few minutes. I got out, moaning softly as my body reminded me it had been banged and bruised, and patted myself dry then climbed into ancient sweats, my answer to p.j.s.

Comfort food, that’s what I needed. I stared at the meager contents of the fridge. Limp carrots, shriveled celery, a batch of rice balls stuffed with umeboshi, the pickled apricots that for some reason are called plums in the U.S., and a few slices of sourdough rye. I eyed the lone bottle of beer. Not tonight. Chamomile tea, that would help calm me. I wasn’t really hungry and the ginger cookies in the ceramic jar were beyond stale but dipped in hot tea they’d taste fine.

I wandered through to the front room and sat in the old rocking chair, looking out over a deserted First Avenue. Chance oozed his plump way onto my lap. Ivan sat slender and dignified on the floor next to the chair, his head in easy nudging distance of my arm to remind me to pat him. The tea relaxed me and my emotion spilled up from the depths where I’d tried to hide it. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Chance glared indignantly and jumped off my lap. Ivan stood and backed away. The two headed for the kitchen and I heard crunching sounds as they tackled the dry cat food in their bowls. So much for sympathy.

Leaning back in the rocker, I dozed. When I opened my eyes, salty tears were stiff on my face. Rubbing my face, too tired to wash it, I made for the bed and was asleep before the cats jumped up next to me.

I woke refreshed by a deep, dreamless sleep. My body was a little stiff but my head didn’t hurt. I glanced out of the window at the Asher Levy School opposite. Kids were going in, probably for the free breakfast, others were hanging out on the sidewalk. My breakfast was two rice balls and a cup of miso. If I hurried, I’d have time to visit Lanny at the hospital before work. The phone rang as I finished dressing. I grabbed it. Good news about Lanny?

“You know Gus, he’s giving them hell in the hospital. Says they need the bed for someone who’s ill. The police want to talk to you to confirm the time he dropped you off. Gus says he left the station when you got on the train and went back to the office to pick up something. He was walking back to his car when a minivan came speeding through the parking lot and knocked him down. It didn’t stop.”

“That’s terrible! How badly is he hurt?” I dreaded the possibility that Gus might have serious head injuries.

“Two cracked ribs and a broken leg, a nasty break. He jumped out of the way and was almost clear but the fender caught his leg.”

“Did he lose consciousness?”

“No. Somehow he crawled back to the office and called me, you know how he resists having a cell phone. The doctor says the leg break is serious. The ribs only hurt when he yells! I’ll let you know when he comes home. Right now, I’ve got to call Bob Bertolli to see if he can come and cover for this week’s patients. Bob was at home today, he and Gus are working on a paper for an upcoming conference.” She sighed. “I doubt Gus will get to the OEP conference in England, he’ll probably still be on crutches. He wanted me to call you first, he didn’t want the news to come out of left field when the police telephoned.”

My hand was trembling as I put the phone down. It shrilled immediately. It was the Connecticut police and the short conversation was friendly. I confirmed the time Gus had dropped me at the train station and we agreed that hit-and-run drivers were scum.

“Might’ve been kids out joy-riding. We found the car later, abandoned. Owner called in this morning to report it stolen,” the officer said.

As briefly as possible, I explained about the murder of Mary Sakamoto and her warning of danger and how, the day after that, my godmother had been attacked and was in the hospital in a coma. The guy in Connecticut didn’t make any comment about what I’d told him and didn’t sound too interested but he followed through.

“All right, give me the name of the officer in New York who interviewed you about the street crime.”

After I hung up, I sat for a moment considering the news. My dad always insisted trouble comes in threes. Mom used to say that’s because he expected three. Starting with Mary Sakamoto’s shooting, the total was four. Were the four connected? If so, how? It was baffling. Was it a coincidence that Gus had been hit? Was it kids gone wild? Damn, why hadn’t I asked the Connecticut officer about hit-and-run statistics? How often did this type of thing happen? At least Dan Riley would receive more news to add to the file when the Connecticut police called. Riley might even think I was cooperating. I was, in a way. I checked the time. I had to leave right away if I wanted to visit Lanny before work. I beat the cats to the door, double-locked and went quietly downstairs.

When Pat called, raindrops had been sprinkling the windows, flattening into horizontal ribbons as spurts of wind hit, but the sun came out as I reached the sidewalk. I scanned the headlines at the newsstand then paid for a New York Times. I leafed through and wasn’t surprised to find Lanny smiling up at me above a short article on the back page. It was an old photo from her wedding announcement but she hadn’t changed much since then.

The headline, “Widow of Swedish Diplomat in Hospital,” ran over a few skimpy paragraphs: Lanny’s years with the Rockefeller Foundation and charity work with organizations like the League of Women Voters and MADD, Mothers Against Drunk Drivers. It didn’t mention the ferocious energy that Lanny put into MADD work after a drunk driver ran down her husband and their daughter. It did note she’d been preparing for a national gathering of experts to speak about the increasing incidents of drunk driving. Dr Foikoitis was one of the listed experts she was wrangling to participate pro bono. It didn’t mention why she was in the hospital. It closed with the non-committal sentence that police were investigating the collapse of the historic domed ceiling at the National Arts Club, of which Mrs. Oldenburg was a longtime member and from where she had been taken to the hospital. This was a press release from the consulate. Diplomatically uninformative.

At St. Vincent’s, I hurried down the hall to Lanny’s room, eager to see her. The guard in the hall nodded, recognizing me from my last visit. Tapping on the door, I pushed it open cautiously, not wanting to surprise Dag, who was sitting close to the door––any unauthorized person who did get by the hall guard would have to get by Dag to reach Lanny. I immediately had Dag’s undivided attention and he had me classified instantly––I wasn’t a threat. Now there was a man with superior vision processing.

“Morning,” he said, his voice low.

“Hi, Dag. Any update from the doctors?”

“Yes. Mrs. Oldenburg’s condition is stable,” he said. “Here, I can give you the official details.” He picked up a notebook and read quietly to me.

“Her vital signs are strong. They monitor brain pressure periodically and have relieved the pressure several times by draining spinal fluid. The neurologist says he’s encouraged.”