Manhattan Mayhem (5 page)

“I don’t make a habit of talking to strangers,” she said, turning her attention to two toddlers in shiny neon jackets attempting to climb the giant bronze sculpture. Their father leaned against the White Rabbit and squinted at his phone.

“I’m not strange.” Mark sat on the bench next to her, settling his bag on his lap. “But your comment makes me curious. Are you?”

She didn’t answer.

One of the toddlers, lying prone atop a low mushroom, lost his chubby grip and slid off sideways, landing hard. A split second later, his piercing wails jolted the father into attentiveness. He pocketed the phone and picked up the kid.

Mark pointed and leaned close. “Shouldn’t they be in school?”

“Too young,” she said. “Listen, I don’t want to be rude—”

“Then don’t be.” He propped one elbow atop the bench back and settled an ankle across a knee. Exhaling loudly, he rested his other hand on the messenger bag. “Relax. We’re at a popular attraction in the middle of a busy park on a sunny October afternoon. There’s no harm in a little conversation.”

She lifted her book. “There is if it keeps me from reading.”

“Except you aren’t,” he said. “Reading, that is.”

“What do you think this is?” This time when she lifted the book, she shook it. “A surfboard?”

He drew her attention to the nearby steps, where a young woman hunched over a paperback in her left hand while biting the thumbnail of her right. “
She’s
reading.” He extended his arm, pointing at a pair of joggers rounding the model boat pond. “They’re
not
reading.” With an amused look on his face, he said, “Amazing powers of observation, coupled with deductive skill.” He spread his hands. “It’s a gift.”

“I’d say you’re full of yourself.”

“You wouldn’t be the first. Hang on.” He pointed again, this time skyward. Lifting his chin into the crisp, twisty breeze, he pulled in a deep breath through his nose. “Did you catch that?” He continued with barely a pause. “That familiar smell, right on time. You recognize it, don’t you? Death and new beginnings in one fragrant breath. Worn-away leaves and pristine notebooks. Every autumn it comes, right on schedule. Sometimes it lasts for days; sometimes it’s gone before you exhale.”

“Very poetic, but that doesn’t answer—”

He walked his fingers along the edge of her book. “You’ve been sitting here for an hour with
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
on your lap, but you haven’t turned a single page.”

Her voice rose. “You’ve been watching me?”

He scratched his neck. “ ‘Watching’ makes me sound like a stalker. Can’t have that. Let’s just say you pique my interest.”

“If that’s supposed to be a pickup line—”

“It’s not. Call me curious. Call me intrigued.”

“Call you a weirdo,” she said.

He laughed. “Touché. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, right. You’re being
careful.
” He smirked as he stretched the word out. “You’re afraid Mark-in-the-park might tempt you out of your comfort zone. Don’t worry,” he said with a dismissive wave, “I like knowing people’s names, is all. A quirk of mine. I thought you’d be someone who appreciated a little witty repartee.” He pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “You don’t
look
uptight or fainthearted. Apparently, I made the clichéd mistake of …” He touched her book again. “Judging by a cover.”

She closed it with a
thump.
“I’m leaving now.”

“No, you’re not,” he said. “You’re waiting for something. Or someone. Am I close?”

“My reason for being here is none of your business.”

“How about this, then?” He patted the messenger bag. “You won’t leave because you want to know what I have in here.”

“Why would I care?”

“Let’s see.” He opened the bag slowly, grinning as he unbuckled the leather strap and peeled it back. Using his thumb and index finger, he reached inside, latched onto something solid, and gently eased it out.

“What are the chances?” he asked as he dropped a copy of
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
into her lap. Blue hardcover. Gold lettering. Identical to hers.

She jerked in surprise. “What’s going on? What are you trying to pull?”

“Whoa, sorry,” he said. “Just thought it was a fun coincidence. Nothing more. The only thing I’m trying to pull is a little conversation. Geez.”

“No way. What did you do? Run to the nearest bookstore and buy this? You really
are
a stalker.”

“Oh, come on.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Okay, even if I
had
gone to such drastic lengths, tell me: to what end? You’re streetsmart, you’re savvy. A little paranoid, perhaps, but this is New York, so that can be forgiven. What nefarious plan could possibly be served by my producing this book at this moment?”

She traced her fingers along its gold embossed title but didn’t answer.

“Now that you understand my reasons for chatting you up are completely benign, we can begin anew, can’t we? Hi, I’m Mark.”

She handed back the book. “I’m … Jane.”

He grinned. “Nice to meet you, Jane.” Opening the cover, he flipped pages until he reached an illustration of the Cheshire Cat. “He’s my favorite character.”

“He would be.”

Mark chuckled. “You see there? We’ve known each other for ten minutes and already we can share a joke. I’m not so terrible, am I?”

Jane didn’t answer. The father and two toddlers were gone, as were the photo-happy tourists. They’d been replaced by a dozen kids, all about five years old, who climbed and shouted and raced while two women in matching day-care-emblazoned sweatshirts supervised. On the bench directly opposite, three twenty-something professionals chatted, then raised paper coffee cups in an animated toast that was lost to
the wind.

“May I?” Mark asked.

It took Jane a second to realize he was reaching for her book. She slammed both hands down. “Don’t touch it.”

“Sorry.” He shrugged as though it made no difference. “I thought I’d compare copyright dates. See which one is older. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“They’re exactly the same. Anyone can see that.”

At that moment an old, bearded man shuffled past. Wearing an overcoat with a frayed collar, he carried a grubby cup and a fragment of creased cardboard. He approached the day-care workers first, earning twin evil-eyed glares before getting shooed away. Unfazed, he turned and made his unsteady way toward Jane and Mark.

He shook his paper cup of change in front of her. The clumsily lettered cardboard sign he held read:
Please share.
Below that:
In pain.
Jane turned her head and murmured, “No, thank you.”

Mark pulled a wallet from the messenger bag, drew out a couple of singles, and stuffed them into the beggar’s cup. The old guy grunted, then shuffled away to take a seat behind the statue.

“You realize he’ll probably drink that donation,” Jane said.

Mark shrugged. He pushed up his glasses and resumed paging through his book, stopping to spend an extra second or two at each illustration. When he lifted his head again, he asked, “Why here?” He gestured at the bronze Alice sitting atop a giant mushroom, her cat Dinah in her lap. “And why the book? Any special significance?”

She bunched her sweater’s neckline. “Why do you care?”

“Sorry.” He lifted both hands. “Didn’t mean to touch a nerve. Again. Two adults, same time, same place, same book. Seems like one heck of a coincidence. I know why I’m here. I was curious about you.”

“Why
are
you here?” she asked.

“Birthday, if you must know,” he said with a grin. “I took the day off from work to do something special for myself.”

“Happy birthday,” she said with little warmth.

He nodded.

“Is sitting in Central Park with
Alice
the best ‘something special’ you could come up with?” she asked.

“This year, it is.” He turned a few more pages. “I’m making myself a gift of good memories.”

“So
you’re
here to recapture your childhood?”

“Something like that. Can’t help thinking about my dad today. He didn’t always know how to connect with his children. But, man, give him a book to read aloud, and the guy turned into a Shakespearean actor with a deep baritone voice. Of course, as a kid, I didn’t know what a Shakespearean actor was or what baritone meant—but I can still hear him now.” He lifted his copy of
Alice.
“This book was his favorite.” Jane smoothed her pixie cut as though tucking it behind an ear. “Is your father … gone?”

“Late last year,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

Mark lifted his chin toward the statue where the day-care kids clambered and crawled. “He used to bring us here when we were kids. And read to us. I can’t help but associate this place with him.”

Jane remained quiet.

Still staring at the kids, Mark said, “This is the first birthday since—” He gave himself a quick shake. “Enough of my melancholy reflections. Tell me what brings you here. I hope your reason is happier than mine.”

Jane took her time before answering. “I don’t know why I’m here. Not really.” She glanced down at the book in her lap, then up at the statue, then at Mark. “I guess the best explanation I can give you is that I came here today for closure.”

“That doesn’t sound happy.”

She looked away. “You know how you always hear about criminals returning to the scene of the crime?”

“Yes.”

“How come you never hear about the victims? Nobody talks about their pain—their need to return.”

“Oh, I see,” he said in a breath. “I’m sorry to hear it. If you don’t mind
me asking, what happened? Sometimes talking to a stranger can help.”

“I thought you said you weren’t strange.”

“Good catch.” He smiled. “So, maybe I lied about my pickup lines.”

“Not going to work on me, sorry.”

“Fair enough. Forget all that. No silly games. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I can talk your ear off. But I’m a good listener, too.”

Four times Jane smoothed the side of her pixie, tucking nonexistent hair behind her ear. She bit her lip.

Mark cleared his throat. “Central Park is pretty safe most of the time, and this spot tends to be busy with kids and tourists.” He waited a beat. “But obviously it isn’t safe enough. Not if you were injured … or hurt … here.”

“Not me.” She shook her head and ran her fingers up and down the book’s edges. “Do you remember the young woman who was murdered in the park a year ago?”

“Someone was murdered?” His brows came together. “Here?”

Jane pulled in a shuddering breath. “This is hard for me.”

“Take your time.”

“I’m surprised you don’t remember. The story got massive coverage because her father was some bigwig in the police department.”

“Oh, wait,” he said. “I do recall hearing about that. That was a particularly brutal crime, wasn’t it?”

Jane nodded.

“They never caught the guy, did they?”

Jane shook her head.

“I take it you knew her?” Mark asked. “Was she a friend? She wasn’t your sister, was she?”

Taking another hard breath, Jane clenched her eyes shut. When she opened them again, she whispered, “I loved her.”

“Oh,” Mark said. He stroked his beard, glancing from side to side. “You mean—”

“Yeah, I mean what you think I mean. I was in love with her.”

“I don’t remember her name,” Mark said. “I’m sorry.”

Jane’s body drew in on itself. “Samantha.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss.” Mark swallowed, looking around again. “How long were you and Samantha together?”

“We weren’t,” Jane said. “I never got the chance to tell her how I felt.”

A group of teenagers arrived in a collection of flailing legs, arms, and shouted profanities. They swarmed the statue, displacing the five-year-olds, who whined their resentment. When one of the young men swigged from a flask, the day-care workers gathered their charges and hustled them away.

Mark drummed his fingers against his messenger bag. “I’m very sorry,” he said again. “You said it happened about a year ago?”

“Today,” Jane said. “One year ago today.”

Mark gave a low whistle. “Now I understand. This is a vigil for your friend. And I interrupted you.” He waited a moment and then said, “I can’t imagine how hard it must be—I mean, hard to return to the place where she was murdered.”

“It didn’t happen here. It was deeper in the park,” Jane said, “in an area the police said has a sketchy reputation.”

“Not the Ramble?” he asked.

“That’s it,” she said. “I guess it’s popular with bird-watchers and for quick hookups. I’ve never gone in there myself.”

“There’s a stretch of the Ramble near the lake that’s seen a few assaults in recent years. Is that where it happened?”

She held up both hands. “No idea.”

Mark scratched his head. “Seems like a pretty bold move on the killer’s part. How did he do it?”

Jane made air quotes. “Blunt force trauma, according to the police. They found a tree branch nearby with her blood on it.”

“Blunt force. A less grisly way of saying she was bludgeoned to death. I’m very, very sorry this happened to her.” Shaking his head, Mark leaned back. “I’ve watched enough TV cop shows to know that murder is a messy business. The guy who killed her is either some kind of evil genius, or he got lucky.”

“Got lucky, I imagine.” Jane shivered. She sat up a little straighter. “It does help to talk. You were right.”

“Tell me about Samantha.”

A nearby shout interrupted them. A policewoman with a determined expression started up the steps, bellowing at the boozing teenagers. The paperback-reading woman didn’t flinch—didn’t even seem to notice—as the cop strode past.

The teens bounded away before the officer reached the top of the plaza. Two vaulted the low stone wall to the east while the rest scattered north, disappearing into the park.

Jane followed the action. “Cops never catch
anybody
anymore, do they?”

“I don’t think she tried very hard,” Mark said.

“That’s what I mean. They don’t really try.”

Tranquility restored, the officer took her time surveying the whimsical haven. She made a slow circuit around Alice, reaching out to skim the Mad Hatter’s brim.