My toes clenched inside my Keds and my claws dug into the seatbelt as we neared the hell zone. Revisiting my nightmare zone twice in one week was beyond masochistic.
"You okay, Señorita?" asked the driver through a Plexiglas divider. Traffic had stopped, though my stomach kept rolling.
"Claro que sí," I replied, nodding in jerks.
Of course
. I smiled for his rearview mirror, and he kept a wary eye on me. "Take a right and cut over to Lexington."
We surged with traffic and turned onto E. 107th. The panic rose like a swarm of bees. Angry, hunting bees, massing over me at once. My back arched off the seat, my legs bursting in a sort of running spasm I couldn't stop. And I was muttering God knows what.
"Neccesita un doctor?"
I shook my head. I was still breathing—paralyzed but breathing. And not vomiting. Good in public situations like taxis. Fact was, Troy was the least of my demons.
"Stop here," I called. With the cabbie thinking me a drug addict in withdrawal, he'd be happy to ditch me at the corner. But in a neighborhood I didn't know well, I needed to be cool. Sam's garbage bin was hidden behind the building facing the fire, so to get to 108th discreetly I'd have to round the block.
Up Lexington, cops fielded temporary street dividers as fire engines doused the charred remains of a brick high-rise apartment. Firemen scaled ladders into the smoke, busting through walls and sending bricks tumbling to earth, while smoke continued streaming ribbons into the sky like a death marker. My heart wrenched for the survivors. This was a predominantly blue-collar neighborhood, where folks who lost everything would not likely have insurance to replace belongings or pay for relocation. One fire would devastate many families. And yet tragedy tended to remind folks they lived in a community of shop owners and tenants and families. People who needed each other to survive. Despite the disaster, the fire would bond them.
The cabby turned a chubby shoulder to me, his dark eyes widening. "You don't want to go here I think. Some bad thing happen."
"My friend's place is nearby. I'm just checking to make sure she's okay." Now I definitely sounded like a druggie looking for a hookup.
"You take my card." From the pocket of his blue work shirt, the cabbie fumbled a business card that was smudged with grease and rough at the edges, like it had been given to customers and given back several times. I noted the gold cap on an upper incisor when he smiled and how his bangs fought to cover his eyes. The looks of a toughie, the smile of a puppy. "You call Raul. I come get you."
Exchanging his card for my cash, I thanked him and added a big tip.
Once outside the cab, I tried for fresh air, inhaling the fresh smoke instead. The neighborhood would reek for days.
We'd parked in front of the Lexington Gardens apartments, where a handful of men watched the fire crews with intense speculation. One by one, the men turned toward the blond chick exiting a taxi. Already I was reciting appropriate Spanish phrases to blow off trouble.
Then I noted the two cops at the fire scene within calling distance. The taller officer's narrow-shouldered stance reminded me of my favorite cop, Officer Petosa. Now I appreciated why Sam had made me dress in dark sweats and wear my Cal baseball cap to "hide those doe eyes." I couldn't afford to be recognized by cops from the park's murder scene.
The tall cop pushed back the police hat and smoothed her straw hair. A woman. And she was staring right at me. I turned and waved at the huddled men like I belonged. She turned away.
Down the block I hurried. Then I cut north through a for-lease parking lot where a squad of seventies-style, white school buses waited to be run again. Red letters ran across their rears advertising "Student Driver" and "Learn to Drive" to attract customers. "Nobody drives in New York," I muttered. If only the stereotype were true, Luke would still be alive.
Cutting through the lot I found my nemesis, E. 108th, where I fittingly lost my breath. My palms kissed my knees as I bent. The bee party in my head had migrated south to my lungs, where the busy little bastards were clearly multiplying. Across the street sat the building materials supply yard in which Sam had hidden the recorder. My target was in view, but I might as well have been a hundred miles away with this anxiety attack.
Focus, Jules.
Hunkering like a fugitive with nearby cops watching for suspicious characters only made my heart race faster. I forced myself to cross the street. I could just as well have a heart attack on the other side of 108th.
Walking proved a solid plan. I made it as far as the gate, where a fat padlock refuted my mission. Wouldn't be the first fence I'd scaled in my career, I mused, recalling the deserted Kosovo news station five international journalists and I broke into, seeking refuge and transmission during a midnight air raid. Never underestimate a pack of determined journalists.
The supply lot was stacked with wood beams, concrete blocks, and empty metal drums. Good landing material, if I could jump the fence, but the razor wire atop the gate would slice my belly to shreds before I even got a leg over. So I cut right to the bordering parking lot, where I found a gaping seam in the lower half of the fence. A car had clearly backed into the support posts and split the wires open. I dropped to the ground and set to trespassing, feeling that old surge of excitement from throwing caution to the wind, and then catching the sleeve of my new coat on an exposed wire.
"Damn it. Now you owe me a toothbrush and a new jacket, Sam Wainwright." I ripped my sleeve free and hurried toward the trash bin. Of course Sam couldn't have picked the recycling bin or a nice clean hole in the ground. No, he just had to choose the smelliest, slimiest option. "Detours folks from looking," he'd explained. "Criminals are wusses. And cops hate garbage detail."
My hips hitched on the ledge of the bin as I dropped my head toward the muck. Fortunately, the bin was half empty. I pushed aside a greasy pizza box and a couple takeout cartons oozing with yakisoba noodles. Even found a pair of strappy heels, which made me ponder the scenario that brought a woman dressed like that to a building materials site like this. Not that these were Jimmy Choos, but they weren't Target clods either. Considering my luck with corpses, I peeked under the black garbage bag to be sure her body hadn't been forcefully detached from the shoes.
Then I spotted a thin black stick in the rusty corner of the bin. The recorder. My arms proved too short to reach, so I slid sideways on the ledge and stretched till my fingers grazed the device, practically doing a handstand and giving a whole new meaning to dumpster diving.
"Come on, you little shit," I said, tickling the device toward me. "Gotcha."
"Got what?" asked a deep, scratchy voice. The woman poked her head into the bin, so her face and bleach blond hair were upside down.
Crap
. The cop I'd mistaken for Petosa.
My hand latched onto the shoes. "My heels."
She grimaced as I dropped to my feet and wiped my coat of rust and grime. "Got in a fight with my boyfriend, so he tossed my favorite heels. Serves me right for bringing home cold yakisoba." I gestured toward the open food trays.
Please, God, don't let her notice the shoes are half my foot size.
She finger-tapped the radio at her hip and turned an investigating eye on the bin as I slipped the device into my pocket. "This is a restricted area," she said. "And you're trespassing. On a block surrounded by cops. I suggest you get your butt on the other side of that fence and take your ugly shoes with you." She pointed to where she'd slid open the gate. The lock hung loose on the fence.
Damn it
. I'd ripped my coat for nothing.
***
As I stepped inside the foyer of my apartment building, I waved to Raul, who jumped into his cab. I tucked his dirty business card into my back pocket. He'd insisted on writing down his work hours to benefit my transportation needs. Clever cabbie.
A hand jerked me sideways into the shadows.
"That man," said Sam, his gun angled at the door, "who was he?" Bloodshot eyes and a gray face made Sam look monstrous under the foyer's blinking fluorescents. I could feel the heat coming off his body from a fever. "Asked you a question."
"A cabbie," I said, yanking free. "The President wasn't available."
Sam growled. Then he wrapped his arm around my waist, slid his hand into my back pocket, and snatched the card. First he read the card, then he read my face.
"She never lies." He pocketed his weapon and the card in the hoodie. "You're late."
"And you should be in bed."
Sam grunted and leaned on the wall of mailboxes. "Got worried, that's all." He was breathy, expended.
I waved the device in the air and all he did was shake his head.
"Not about that," he said.
"No, you doubted me."
Getting felt up wasn't exactly the homecoming I'd expected, yet my retort stuck in my throat. What was he thinking, descending these stairs in his condition when he could have fallen and broken his arrogant, pig-headed neck? Any neighbor could have heard him over Wheel of Fortune and called 911.
"Broadway was a mess, like I told you. I should have cut south," I said. The entire trip I'd been on the lookout for anyone tailing me. I'd broken Sam's rules by not switching cab companies or drivers. Instead, I'd slipped Raul a fifty to keep the meter off, so he didn't log the fare or the payee's address.
"Next time—"
"There won't be a next time," he snapped. "There shouldn't have been a first time."
The front door pressed open before I could counter. Sam's eyes widened.
My nearsighted neighbor, Cicily Roebuck, fought the heavy door's return, so I jumped to catch the handle and held the door open so she could waddle inside. "Mrs. Roebuck." I cooed her name; the woman loved to be adored and insisted neighbors call her by her childhood nickname, Cissy, but I honored my aunt's teachings to address elders with respect. "Thank you so much for taking Max last week."
"He's no bother." Her faint mustache caught the light when her chin raised to accept my formal escort. Deep wrinkles cut above her lips from forty years of cigarillos. Despite smoking half her life, she had a voice like Dorothy from
The Wizard of Oz
. "And I liked the company."
"I hear Duke's coming for a visit, so I guess you'll have plenty of company." I ushered her toward the stairwell, keeping her focused on me, not the shadow in the corner.
"He's coming to fix my sink." She'd already gained the first stair, so her cloud of gray hair sat near my nose, giving off hints of menthol. "He travels all over the world, and still he thinks of me. Last week was a postcard of the Great Wall. Heavens, I forgot my mail." She pivoted her bad leg toward the mailboxes.
"Let me fetch your mail for you." I planted her hand on the rail and seized her keys before she could reply.
Her mailbox was first in line, with flower stickers encircling her name like a schoolgirl's lunch box. I hadn't the heart to tell Mrs. Roebuck her son was a druggie when we attended high school together, or that he'd been promoted to dealer now. The postcards likely came from Chinatown and were sent via some heroin dealer abroad.
"He's no trouble," she said. "Unless there's a squirrel. You know, I can't hold onto him anymore." She leaned toward me before I realized she was talking about Max, not Duke.
"Yup, he's naughty that way." I caught Sam's eye. "Very, very bad."
With Mrs. Roebuck safely pursuing her one-story climb, I turned back for Sam.
"Jesus," I said, pulling him upright from his death slouch. He angled toward the stairs. "Thanks, but we're using the freight elevator this time." I pointed him toward the laundry room.
"There's an elevator?" Sam looked woefully up the stairs. "Now you tell me."
***
"What do you do for fun around here, besides yoga videos, I mean." Sam held the TV remote in one hand, a hummus-smeared pita in the other. With his back braced by a clutter of white pillows, he looked like a vacationer at an island retreat. My white duvet was doomed.
"Well, I'm a mean solitaire player. Besides that, I read, watch movies, teach Max tricks." I handed him napkins stamped with Marco's Greek Restaurant in cerulean blue. Forty-eight hours with a fugitive cop and I was explaining my social life; I'd graduated from invasive to humiliating. "Sometimes the park, but—"
"Yeah, that's out. You need to clear your destinations with me from now on. And don't roll your eyes at me like that."
I'd retreated back to my sand-colored sofa, so he couldn't see my eyes rolling again. The man and his bossy arrogance were getting under my skin. Like a red-hot fire poker.
"You really a photographer?" he mumbled, his cheeks bulging with beef kabob and pita. "No photos on the walls." He flipped TV channels while he ate like a rabid dog. With Max drooling inches away, Sam could be as sloppy as he wanted and Max would cover his tracks.
Like owner, like dog.
"My editor asks me that question all the time." Hell, I simply took pictures, then handed them to Howard, who gave them to my editor, who dropped them at the printers. Then a newsstand sold the magazines to people who stared at the images. Someone ripped up the pages, someone recycled them. Mine was one small step in a long process of information digestion and regurgitation. My job couldn't be more useless in the world. "You really a cop?"
"Asked and answered." He perused the channel guide. "Gotta love satellite TV. Let's find a Pac-twelve game. You're Cal, I'm Wazzu, two underdogs. But you knew that."
His precious college sweatshirt sliced to pieces—who could forget. Over the sofa arm, I stared at the man in my alma mater blue-and-golds and gave a low whistle. "A Washington State University Cougar wearing my Cal Bear sweats. Who'da thunk it."
"Tempts fate, doesn't it." He winked at me, and those parentheses curved up his cheeks.
"Surely you have some cop buddies you can hang with instead."
"Nope. Where's your camera?"
"At the office with Howard. What about family—somebody has to claim you."