The Deadliest Option (34 page)

Twelve ... eleven ... ten ...

Almost there.
Go. Go. Go.
Had she done something to lead him on? No. No. He was crazy. But what if he thought she’d come up to his apartment with him because she wanted it? No. No. She hadn’t led him on. What was she thinking?

Nine ... eight ... seven ... six ...

She slowed down, gasping, and listened, looking back up the stairs. No one was following her. How could that be? Oh, God, what if he had taken the elevator down? What if he was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs? She was trembling so violently that she staggered like a drunk, gripping the rail, forcing herself on.

Five ... four ...

She lost her footing and half fell, half slid on her butt to the third-floor landing and lay there moaning, fighting to catch her breath. If Chris were the murderer, he would have to find her and kill her now because she knew. She knew. Dragging herself up, she tottered down the remaining two flights to a red door that said EXIT—USE ONLY IN CASE OF FIRE.

She pushed on the door, aching with the effort. It didn’t give. No sound came from upstairs. The staircase went further down, and she followed it to LEVEL I. Peering down, she saw what must be LEVEL II and heard the rumbling sigh of the building’s innards, like those of a giant passenger liner. The boiler was down there, and God knew what else. She crawled back up to street level. She would have to make one last try on the fire door. What else could she do? Go out onto a floor and beg for help? Who in New York would open a door to a stranger? But maybe she could get someone to call the police.

She gathered up all her strength, leaned on the bar handle, and pushed. The door swung open and she lost her grip on it, tumbling into the street, landing on her knee—the torn one. Spasms of pain shot up her leg and she collapsed on the sidewalk.
Don’t quit now. Get up. Get up.
Where was she? She rolled over on her side and sat up. Twilight. An overcast sky. The unbreathable air. She was near a vacant lot on the quiet side of Twenty-ninth Street because she could see the Little Church Around the Corner across the way in the middle of the block. Everyone was indoors cooling off except a bag lady across the street, sitting in the gutter, dozing against her overloaded shopping cart.

Holding on to the open metal door, she got up and slammed the door shut. She needed a doctor. She had her purse. She’d hail a cab. She leaned against the smooth marble side of the building. She’d never make it to the street. Looking down at herself for the first time, she saw that her blouse and bra hung in tatters. She buttoned her jacket, brushed her hair out of her face with quivering fingers. It was hanging around her shoulders, her back. It was so hot. It was so cold. She seemed unable to keep her balance. A car made a left from Madison and came slowly west on Twenty-ninth Street, pulled over to a fire hydrant and stopped. It shouldn’t park there. It would get a ticket. A horn blared.

She couldn’t see. Was it a cab? She willed herself to leave the side of the building, but her feet wouldn’t move.

“Ms. Wetzon?” Someone was calling to her from the car. “Leslie?”

A figure was getting out of the car, coming toward her. She cringed. Who was it? She covered her face with her trembling hands. Chris had found her. He was coming for her. No. It was a woman. It wasn’t Chris. Someone who knew her, who would help her.

“Leslie? What happened?”

She squinted her good eye, trying to see who it was. Mo. It was Mo. And she was beautiful. Wetzon pitched forward into soft but total darkness.

***

Her mouth was so dry. She moved her head and opened her eyes—but only one of them responded. The other was stuck. Her face felt as if it had been horseback riding and the horse had stepped on it. It was dark. A faint light came through the windowed door. She saw the bed, the white linen, the buttons, the switches. The antiseptic smell. She tried to sit up, but the blanket was too heavy. People were talking in low voices, but the room was swimming and swirling around her. In the distance she heard someone say, “She’ll sleep now.” And she did.

When she awoke again, sunlight spattered the room with yellow rectangles. Silvestri was smiling down at her. Smiling at her, she thought. He stroked her hair. “Where am I?” she said, but in a stranger’s voice. Her nose felt funny, heavy. There was packing in it.

“Bellevue. Mo brought you in last night. You were a mess.”

“Water,” she croaked.

He held the straw for her and she sipped the cool liquid. It had no taste.

“Chris did it,” she said. She held her hand out to Silvestri. “Did you get him? He was going to rape me, then murder me.” Her lips quivered.
Stop that
, she ordered herself.

“Les, you agreed to press charges last night.

“I did?”

“Yeah. Gorham’s cooling his heels waiting for bail.”

“Bail? He’s getting
bail
?”

“He’s getting bail.”

“He can’t. He almost killed me.”

“He claims you led him on.”

Anger careened through her, running amok, burning her veins, her fingers, her gut. “He almost killed me. Do you believe him?”

“No.”

“Then why is he getting out?”

“It’s the law if he makes bail.”

“But who set the bail low enough—oh, shit. He’s a murderer and he’s going to walk.”

“He’s not a murderer ... at least he didn’t kill Ellie Kaplan.”

“How do you know for certain?” She was angry ... hurt ... burbling, crying, shaking....

He sat on the bed and took her in his arms. “We know for certain.”

“He did it, Silvestri. He did it. I know. He has to be the one.” She pounded weakly on Silvestri’s arms.

“He has an airtight alibi.”

“What kind of airtight alibi?”

“He was in custody that night ... arrested on another charge.”

“No! It can’t be. What other charge?”

“Assaulting his wife.”

“I
T’S THE HELPLESSNESS
more than the pain,” Wetzon said, combing her hair gently because everything hurt, even her scalp. “Shit.” She was going to cry again. She couldn’t seem to get her emotional balance back. The mirror over the sink in the small bathroom revealed a frightening image. The left side of her face was grotesque— eye black and blue, swollen shut, cheek red and raw, black and blue, swollen, nose swollen and full of packing. “How am I going to go out looking like this?” she wailed.

“You look beautiful to me.” Silvestri took the comb from her hand. “You’re alive. Right now that’s all that matters.” He put his arm around her and led her back to the bed. The hospital gown and robe flapped around her knees. “When I got the call from Mo—”

Tears watered her good eye. She felt edgy, even whiny. “I was so scared. He could have done anything he wanted to me. If it weren’t for Warren—”

“Who?”

“The cat. Warren. What happened to him?”

“I don’t know, but Gorham looked as though he’d battled a tiger.” He smiled. “I thought you did it.”

Wetzon didn’t smile. “I wish he’d killed him,” she said fervently. “I hate him.” Her hand moved restlessly back and forth; she fiddled with the clasp of her purse. “For making me feel weak and unable to control what happens to me. I keep thinking, what did I do that made him think—”

“Listen to me, Les, the man has problems. You just happened to be there. You came up to his apartment—”

“Silvestri, it was a business dinner. He invited me up. I couldn’t very well insist I’d wait in the lobby or meet him at the restaurant. It would have been insulting. I would have felt like a bumpkin, like an unsophisticated fool—” She stopped. “I guess that’s what he wanted me to feel.”

“You had a drink.”

“Club soda.”

“Whatever. These guys who beat up on women have a cracked perception of the world, Les. It gives them power they don’t normally have in their work or on the street. It turns them on. Gorham took your presence there as a deliberate come-on.”

She felt her heart thumping against her rib cage as if it would explode. “Silvestri, I swear I didn’t do anything.” She was crying again. Why couldn’t she stop? Enough already.

“I know that, Les, but do you?” His beeper went off.

“I’m trying,” she said, giving him a small flicker of a smile. “When did Carlos say he’d be here?”

“Ten, ten-thirty.” He returned her comb and picked up the phone on the table next to the bed, punched out some numbers, waited, then said, “Silvestri.” He adjusted his shoulder holster while he listened, grunting.

Wetzon slipped the comb back in her purse and saw the folded envelope containing the Xeroxed list. “Hey!” Silvestri looked a question over at her. She plucked the envelope out, feeling a welcome surge of adrenaline, and waved it at him.

“Yeah,” he said into the phone. “I hear you. About fifteen minutes.” He hung up. “What’s this?” He looked at the envelope, then slipped the sheet of paper out and unfolded it.

“I found it in Chris’s apartment.”

“So?”

“It’s exactly like the one I found torn in small pieces in Ellie’s make-up bag at Luwisher Brothers—the day Dr. Ash was killed.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, when were you going to tell me about it?” He sounded pissed.

She felt wounded. “I forgot. It didn’t seem all that important, I guess. I couldn’t tell it was written on Ash’s memo paper. Please don’t be mad. Please, Silvestri. I pasted it together yesterday and would have shown it to you last night—”

“Jesus Christ, Les.”

“Don’t yell. I’ll cry.” She couldn’t help herself then. She did, pressing her palms to her eyes.

He held her, and she cried on his clean white oxford-cloth button-down, feeling the gun in its case and for once, found its presence reassuring.
It’s a good thing I don’t own a gun
, she thought.
I would have blown Chris Gorham away.

“I love you,” Silvestri said. He kissed her swollen cheek gently and took a tissue from the box next to the bed and blotted up her tears. “You fly solo all the time, by the seat of your pants. I’m the detective here, you know, and if we’re working together, you’ve got to share.”

“You’re right,” she said. “But about the list—with everything that happened, I’d forgotten about the scraps of paper until yesterday.”

“Who would this mean anything to?”

“You might ask Chris, since you have him in custody.”

“That’s what the call was about. He’s out. His wife arranged bail.”

“What about what he did to me? Wait, I don’t understand. Abby got him out? I thought—”

“She dropped the charges.”

“Oh, shit, what a stupid thing to do. He’ll do it again if he doesn’t get help. Do you think she moved back in with him?”

Silvestri shrugged and folded the paper back in the envelope. “How about you?” He put the envelope into the inside pocket of his tan jacket.

“How about me what?”

“The charges.”

“I’m not dropping them.”

“Good girl.”

“You don’t know me very well if you think I’d do that.” She was hurt.

“I don’t know you at all. You’re a mystery to me.” He smiled at her, his eyes doing their deep turquoise number, the skin crinkling up at the outside corners.

“I love you, too, Silvestri. Thanks for the chocolate.”

He kissed her forehead and left.

The gigantic dark chocolate Lindt bar lay on the table next to the telephone. She’d save it till she got home. All she wanted right now was to get out of there. She looked at her watch, but it wasn’t on her wrist. Where was it? Had she lost it? She emptied her purse on the bed and found her earrings and her watch, putting them on. Very considerate of someone. Mo maybe. Somewhat chagrined, Wetzon thought, I
owe her. If she hadn’t
... She balled her hands into fists, then thought, Silvestri had said he loved her. Just like that.

“Are you decent?” Carlos poked his head in the door. He looked like vanilla ice cream—slacks, jacket, a straw Borsalino on his head, carrying an Armani shopping bag.

“You look like an ethnic Tom Wolfe.”

“And you look like the elephant woman.”

“Thanks a heap. Silvestri told you, I suppose.”

“Here are your duds. “ Carlos handed her the shopping bag. “Yes, he told me. Scared the shit out of me, he did.” He leaned over her. “Let’s have a look at you.”

“What do you think?” she asked anxiously.

His mischievous eyes studied her face. “Ooooogly.”

“Oh, shut up, you monster.” She held her bruised cheek and laughed. “I could use one of those things Arab fundamentalists make women wear.”

“A burqa? Forget it. Not glamorous enough. I brought you just the thing.” He handed her a pair of dark glasses with enormous round lenses.

She put them on gingerly. “How do 1 look?”

He clasped his hands over his chest. “My word, Miss Garbo, may I please have your autograph?” He grinned at her. “Do you need help getting dressed?”

“Really, Carlos. Just step out and pull the drapes, my man.” She got to her feet slowly and emptied the shopping bag on the bed as he drew the curtain around her bed, closing her in. “Where did you find this? I haven’t worn it in ages.” She pulled out a yellow cotton, short-pants jump suit. He’d brought her DKNY white cotton bodysuit, bra, panties, and Keds. “I’ll be ready in a minute, but you’ll have to help me into these,” she said.

“Into what?” He had a mocking lascivious expression on his face as he parted the curtains.

“My Keds.”

“Shucks.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and he fitted her feet into the sneakers and laced them. “What’s it like outside?”

“I passed a camel caravan on the way over.”

“Great. What do you think I should do with my hair?”

He cocked his head, put a finger to his chin. “Here, let me.” He expertly braided her hair into one long braid, felt in his pocket, produced a rubber band, and banded the end. “How’s that?”

“It feels good. How does it look?”

He cocked his head again. “I rather like it. Are you ready to face the world?”

“I have to check out, I think.”

“Okay, let me trot on down the hall to the nurses’ station and see what you need. Do you have a Blue Cross card on you?”