Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One) (17 page)

I was reaching for a can of pâté when I saw Phyllis Lutz, attired in golf uniform down the aisle at the spices.

“Hey, Phyllis,” I called out.

She turned, looked right through me, and pushed her cart in the opposite direction.

Maybe she hadn't seen me. I grabbed the pâté and hurried after her. “Phyllis, you missed your session. You okay?”

“Go away!” she hissed, not bothering to lower her voice. “Stop following me!”

My knees went weak. “What?”

“I should think I made myself clear when I blew you off today.”

“Have I missed something? What’s wrong?”

“What's wrong?” She reached into her cart and held up a copy of the
Phoenix.
“You're involved in a sordid murder case, for God’s sake! Your husband’s name’s all over the papers. Everyone’s talking about you, wondering if you did it!”

There was a buzzing in my ears that I wasn’t sure was coming from inside my own head or from the people who were beginning to stare. I should have answered her. I should have annihilated her with some scathing remark. But my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I dropped the pâté and fled. From behind me I felt a hundred eyes boring into my back, a hundred tongues whispering.

The cab driver complained about the impending storm all the way home, while I sat in the backseat shaking with humiliation. Even the exorbitant tip I gave him failed to pacify. The minute I'd closed the car door, he roared off, spewing noxious fumes in my face and blanketing my shoes with dirt. Then the sky erupted. I stood on my front lawn and, together with the wilted daffodils, raised my face and let the rain revive me. I was drenched through by the time I let myself in the front door.

Except for the animals, tonight I had the house to myself. Automatically I opened the back door for Horty and fed the cats while he did his business. Not as appreciative of the downpour as the daffodils, he was back nosing the cats away from their dinner before they'd had a chance to swallow. Placido and Lucie ran under the table, but José hissed and swatted him on the nose. He backed off. Small he may be, but José takes crap from nobody.

I opened a can for Horty, put his bowl on the floor, removed Lucie and Placido's dishes to the counter, watched as they leaped up and continued eating. The ritual used to drive Rich crazy, despite my scrubbing the counter afterward. One of the few advantages to divorce. You get to do your own thing.

I wandered to the fridge, hoping to find something to fill the hole in
my
stomach, settled on a semi-stale piece of Jarlsberg cheese and a couple of crackers. I poured a glass of wine, polished it off, poured another, went upstairs, and soaked in the bathtub while I gnawed at the cheese and drank the second glass of wine. Then I crawled out of the tub, wrapped myself in my old terrycloth robe, twisted a towel around my freshly washed hair, and lay down on my bed. I was just drifting off when the doorbell rang.

I jumped up, my heart pounding.

“Who is it?” I called from the top of the stairs.

“Ted Brodsky.”

My hand went to my turbaned head. Well, nothing I could do about the way I looked. I beat Horty to the door and opened it.

“Hi. Sorry to barge in on you like this.” He was clutching his jacket collar tightly to prevent the rivulets dripping off his hair from running down his neck. I found his soggy state strangely appealing.

A sudden gust of wind showered us both.

“Think I could come in before I drown?”

“Oh, sure. Sorry.” Embarrassed, I stepped back and watched as he carefully wiped his feet on the mat before stepping inside.

Horty gave a perfunctory sniff at the newcomer, then sat down and thumped his tail on the floor. Brodsky patted his head, was rewarded with a slurp on the hand. “Some watchdog.”

“He hasn’t lost faith in the human race yet.”

“Well, he’s one up on me.” He mopped his face with a handkerchief.

“Take off your jacket. I'll get you a towel.”

“How about I use the one you’re wearing?”

I pulled it loose, foolishly pleased that my hair tumbled from under it, thick and wavy. “It’s probably damp,” I said.

“It’ll do the job. Thanks.”

He held out his sopping jacket. He was wearing a

T-shirt, and jeans that fit. The damp jeans clung to his thighs, and I became acutely aware of his well-muscled legs, caught myself staring as he bent over to dry his hair, then, mortified, dragged my eyes away. Rattled, I hurried into the kitchen and spread the jacket carefully over the back of a chair.

Get hold of yourself!
I scolded myself.
This guy is not a potential lover. He’s a cop. Because you haven’t had sex in nearly two years is no reason to behave like a bitch in heat. Just offer him coffee and find out why he’s here.
“Sergeant Brodsky,” I called out, my voice carefully casual.

“Ted. We agreed it’s Ted.”

“Ted, would you like some coffee?”

He was behind me before I’d taken the can from the cabinet. “Sounds great.”

I measured out the grains and plugged in the pot. When I turned around, he had hung the wet towel over the back of the doorknob and was sitting by the table with José on his lap. José normally has to fight for his share of affection. He purred like a motorboat.

“You’ve made a friend for life.”

“I see you have a set.”

“Three, actually. We only planned to get one, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to separate them.”

“Sounds like you. What’s his name?”

“José. After Carreras, You know, the tenor.”

“Ah, then the other two have to be---”

“Luciano and Placido.”

He smiled broadly. “What else.”

Neither of us said anything until the percolator started perking. Not anxious to bring up the murders, I searched my mind for an innocuous topic, found it.

“Speaking of names, is it Edward?”

He looked up, puzzled. “Edward?”

“Your name.”

“Oh.” He made a face. “Theodore. My dad was a great admirer of a couple of famous Theodores. Theodore Herzl, Theodore Roosevelt.”

“Not bad role models.”

He laughed. “I guess I can think of a worse philosophy for a cop than talking softly, and carrying a big stick. ’Course in today’s society it’d better be a thunder stick.”

“I was named for my father’s mother. Her name was Chaia. In Hebrew it means life.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I am that greatest of all anomalies—-a Jewish cop. Son of Polish-Jewish immigrants. My parents met when they were kids-—in Auschwitz.”

I was stunned. “I’ll have to tell Ruth-Ann. If she knew that she wouldn‘t be so terrified of you. Are your parents still...”

“No.” His expression hardened. “They managed to survive the camps, but not Brooklyn’s muggers.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry.”

He went on stroking José. I noted his easy manner with the cat, liked him for it. I couldn't be with a man who didn't like animals. Not that it mattered in this case, I told myself quickly, but it did make things more comfortable.

I took two mugs from the cabinet and set them on the counter. Why didn’t I just ask him why he was here? I filled the mugs, rummaged around in the turntable, and came up with a box of Oreos. “Cream and sugar?” I inquired with tea party formality.

“Black’s fine.”

He downed three cookies and the coffee and held out the mug for more. “You have an alarm system?”

Startled, I almost poured the coffee onto the table. “You think I need one?”

“At least you've got Man-eater here for protection.”

“Horton,” I corrected.

Hearing his name, Horty’s tail thumped.

“Named after?”

“The elephant in
Horton hears a Who
. Dr. Seuss,” I amended when I saw he was at a loss. “You have to be a parent to get it.”

“He trumpet or bark?”

“Barks. Often and loudly.”

“Good.”

I shifted uneasily. “You think I’m in danger?”

“Wish I knew. Haven't put the puzzle pieces together, yet.”

Somebody was worried about me. Somebody who wasn’t paid to worry about me. Better. Somebody attractive, the first man I'd met since Rich who, let's face it, turned me on.

Healthy,
I rationalized.
This is healthy. Doesn’t mean you have to act on it. Just means you’re alive.

It popped out before I thought. “How come you never married?” Embarrassed, I added, “Of course, it’s really none of my business, just most people by the time they hit forty or so...” My voice trailed off into the swirls of my coffee.

“Almost was.” He put his mug down. “Didn’t work out.”

I let the quiet lie between us. Only José’s steady engine broke the silence.

“I was with the NYPD. Shooting happened the week before our wedding.”

I felt a coldness in my gut. I kept wanting to forget what went with being a cop.

“Pam came to the hospital, told me her nerves couldn’t take it.” He gave a half-smile, but it stopped short of his eyes. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the divorce rate among cops. So it all worked out for the best, really.”

I doubted he thought so. His wound was as raw as my own.

“Decided I needed a change,” he concluded. “Job offer came along in Bergen County. I took it.” He grinned. “So that’s why you’re stuck with me on this case. I really came over to bring you up to date. Your husband finally admitted he had heard rumors about the kickbacks.”

That phony. Acting like he'd never heard the word.

“The fight in the minister's study was more about that than the prenup.”

“Why did he think Erica did it?”

“Like we figured. Power play. Punishing him for insisting on the agreement.”

“Well, she was into power. And she didn't intend to end up like me.”

“She didn’t end up great.”

“No.”

“He agreed to take a lie detector test.”

“Did he? Well, I don't think he’d do that if he had something to hide.” I remembered the boomerang. “You find any fingerprints at Dot’s?”

“Some. Prints aren’t on file with AFIS.”

“What's that?”

“Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Computerized file of all known perps, plus whoever else might have been printed for job-related reasons. Picked up some of your husband’s.”

“Well, I guess he’s spent a fair amount of time there.”

“And there were yours. All over the place.”

I shifted uncomfortably.

“Lucky for you they weren’t on the murder weapon.”

“You found the murder weapon?”

“Kitchen knife.”

“What about the rock that Erica was hit with? You could compare the prints.”

“Difficult to get a print off a rock.”

“So it might not even be the same person.”

“Possible. Not very probable.”

I realized Ted Brodsky would never be discussing this case so openly with me unless he had decided I wasn’t involved. I began to feel like I could really get into this crime-solving business. So long as I didn’t have to see any more dead bodies.

“You get out of Rich who he was with the past couple of days?”

“Gave us the name of a friend in Connecticut. We’re checking it out.”

“Man or woman?”

“Guy name of Marty Kramer. Attorney. Know him?”

“He does Rich’s corporate stuff. But why would Rich go to his house? Why not see him in his office?”

“How good a friend is he?”

“They went to college together, but we never really socialized.”

“Would Kramer cover for him?”

“I wouldn’t think he’d stick his neck out too far. Did Rich tell you who the woman was at Haji's?”

“Said it was just a girl he’d picked up at the bar. Couldn’t remember her name.”

“I don’t believe him.” I grabbed his arm. “You know what? We should talk to Herb Golinko. He knows about Rich’s women. You probably don’t know him. He used to work for Rich until Erica made him quit.”

He took my hand and held it between his. “I know all about it. He’s dead, Carrie.”

“What?”

“Golinko died this afternoon.”

“Oh, God.” Tears shot out of my eyes.

“I'm really sorry.”

“He wasn’t...?”

“No, no, it was the disease.”

“I don’t even know why I’m crying. He wasn’t a close friend or anything. But he was a sweet guy, and he got a raw deal.”

We sat for a while not talking. I didn’t pull away until Horty got jealous and laid his head on my lap, wanting to be petted. Reluctantly I extricated my hand. Brodsky put José on the floor and stood. Reaching for his jacket, he said, “Want to go with me tomorrow?”

“Where?”

“Haji’s. Bartenders have good memories.”

“I'll be in my office till four.”

“Pick you up at six.”

“Okay.”

“See you then.”

When he'd gone, I mulled over why I’d agreed to go to Haji’s with him, decided my reaction to him was normal. Coming off the rejection and pain of divorce, I’d probably have responded that way to almost any attractive man who paid attention to me. The trick was to recognize it for what it was, keep it in perspective. I’d seen this sort of thing often enough in my practice not to let myself be caught up in an inappropriate relationship.

Never married,
I thought.
Bad sign. Besides, he’s a recovering dumpee, like me. His emotions can’t be trusted. And remember, he’s a cop. No sane woman would get involved with anyone who willingly walks into danger every day of his life. Whole thing’s totally unworkable.

I went to bed, certain I’d come to the sensible conclusion. Still, I found myself looking forward to the following night. Despite the constant drumbeat of the rain knocking against my window, plus having to contort my body around four sleeping animals, I got the best night’s sleep I’d had since the whole bizarre sequence of events began.

AT FIVE-FORTY Saturday evening I was applying the finishing touches to my makeup when the doorbell rang.

“Who is it?” I sang out to show Ted how careful I was.

“Me.”

Rich! Damn!

“If you’ve come to see the kids, they're not here.”

“I came to see you. C’mon, Cat, open up.”

Cat. Not Nudnik or Dragon Lady? I wanted to say “Go away!” I wanted to say “Go to hell!” But, don’t ask me why, I opened the door.