The Black Widow (29 page)

Oh, but Ivy was, and still is, despite the lemonade and shared conversation—most of it one-sided.

When the black BMW appeared in the street, her heart skipped a beat. She barely glimpsed the woman inside before she pulled into the garage.

“That’s her?” she asked Heather.

“That’s her. But I don’t want to—”

“No, I know. You don’t want to talk about her. That’s okay. I get it.” Ivy wasn’t going to press her now that she had the opportunity to find out for herself.

She lingered after the garage door closed, not wanting Heather to watch her cross the street and knock on her neighbor’s door. But luckily, Heather soon announced that she had to go inside to use the restroom after all that lemonade.

“It comes with the territory when you’re pregnant,” she said wryly, standing up.

Not sure what to say to that, Ivy pretended to check her watch. “I have to catch my train back to the city anyway, so . . . it was nice meeting you. Good luck with . . . um, the baby.”

“Good luck finding your brother, too. When was the last time you talked to him?”

“Over two weeks ago.”

“Two
weeks
?” Heather echoed, her face etched with concern. “I didn’t realize it’s been that long. I figured it was just—I mean, maybe you should contact the police.”

“I already did. They’re looking for him, too.”

“Well . . . that’s good. I’m sure they’ll find him.” Poised with her hand on the doorknob, Heather looked uncertain. “If you want me to ask Jimmy—that’s my boyfriend—if he can do anything to help—”

“No, that’s okay,” Ivy said quickly. When she mentioned the police, she’d forgotten all about Heather’s boyfriend being a cop.

“If you change your mind . . .” Heather said.

“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

“Okay. Good luck.”

Ivy thanked her and forced herself to take her time descending the front steps as Heather retreated into the house. The moment the door closed, she made a beeline across the street and rang the bell.

Which is being ignored by the woman inside.

All she wants to do is ask a few questions about Carlos. If the garage attendant was telling the truth, Carlos rode off in this woman’s car shortly before he disappeared. And if he wasn’t, then this is a dead end.

Just as she starts to turn away, the door jerks open.

The woman standing across the threshold has long dark hair and an attractive face, easily recognizable from the picture she’d posted online when she was calling herself “Sofia.” Older, with more wrinkles around her wide mouth and eyes than she’d had in the photo. But it’s the same woman.

“Are you Mrs. Rodriguez?”

The woman doesn’t nod, but she doesn’t shake her head either. She just looks at Ivy.

Presuming she’s wary of strange people showing up at her door—and who wouldn’t be?— Ivy goes on, “My name is Ivy Sacks. I’m looking for Carlos Diaz. You know him?”

Ivy swears she sees a flicker of recognition in those blue eyes, but it’s quickly replaced—if it was there at all—with a slight frown. “Carlos? I don’t know anyone named—”

“You met him on InTune, and you went out with him a few weeks ago, on a Friday night.”

Now the eyes widen. “
Carlos?
He told me his name was Nick!”

And you told him your name was Sofia,
Ivy wants to say, but she forces herself to keep silent. She had good practice for that on Heather’s porch.

Unfortunately, this woman isn’t nearly as conversational as her neighbor. She just waits, regarding Ivy with a veiled expression.

“I’ve been really worried about him, trying to find him,” Ivy tells her.

“Then how did you?”

“Pardon?”

The woman rephrases: “How did you wind up here?”

“I went to the parking garage across the street from Tequila Sam’s and I talked to the attendant.” Ivy doesn’t bother to keep the pride from her tone and is gratified with a raised eyebrow telling her she’s not the only one impressed with her detective work.

“How did you know about Tequila Sam’s?”

Ivy merely shrugs. No need to spill every last detail about the extent of her resourcefulness.

“Then . . . are you a friend?”

“I’m . . .”
His boss? His sister?
“His girlfriend,” Ivy hears herself say, discarding both the truth and the earlier lie in favor of this wishful one.

“He didn’t tell me he had a girlfriend.”

“It sounds like he didn’t tell you a lot of things.”

“No . . .” The woman shakes her head. “But I thought that was just because of . . . his condition.”

“What condition?”

She bites her lip, as if trying to decide how to say something. “Um . . . the night we met, he drank too much.”

“I know.” Ivy nods. That’s in keeping with what Mutton Chops told her.

“You
know
? How do you know?”

“The guy in the parking garage told me.” Ivy is starting to feel as though she has the upper hand here.

“Oh! Right. Well . . . Nick—
Carlos
—he passed out—fell and hit his head. When he came to, he was so confused . . . he didn’t even know his real name, or where he lived. He’d lost his wallet somewhere along the way, and . . . I didn’t know what to do. It was some kind of amnesia.”

Ivy nods, her heart pounding. She saw that once on TV—a guy who hit his head and forgot everything about his life. She can’t remember if it was one of those news shows, like
Dateline
or
60 Minutes,
or an episode of one of those crime dramas she loves to watch. Either way, she knows it happens. The dramas are very realistic.

“Where did he go when you left him that night, then?” she asks, picturing poor Carlos wandering the streets with no clue where he belonged.

“I didn’t leave him.”

“What?”

“How could I leave him? He was helpless.”

“Then . . . where is he?”

“He’s here, of course.”

The words leave Ivy breathless with relief. Thank God. Thank God he’s here; he’s alive . . .

“I’m so glad you came,” the woman tells her. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Why didn’t you just call the police?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

She wasn’t—but who is she to judge? She might have called the police to report Carlos missing, but she sure didn’t tell them everything she could have.

“First of all, I figured he was probably married.” At Ivy’s wide-eyed look, she elaborates, “It happens. A lot. I mean, it’s not like he told me his real name, or that he had a girlfriend—even
before
he drank too much and hit his head.”

Okay. So the woman didn’t call the police because she was trying to protect Carlos in case he was cheating on a spouse? How is that any more despicable than Ivy not disclosing the full truth to the detectives because she was trying to protect herself?

It isn’t. In fact, it’s slightly more noble.

She’s a more selfless woman than I am
. Ivy pushes the thought away quickly, along with her own guilt. No one’s giving out medals for altruistic behavior here.

“So . . .” She clears her throat. “Are you saying Carlos is right here in this house?”

“Yes.”

“He’s been here all this time?”

“Yes.”

“And you weren’t going to . . . tell anyone?”

“Like who?”

Ivy shrugs.

“I figured sooner or later his memory would come back. Either that, or sooner or later he’d turn up in a missing persons bulletin. I keep checking, but so far he hasn’t. So you didn’t mention to anyone he’s gone missing?”

Ivy shakes her head. She didn’t—unless you count the police—and something tells her she might not want to mention that yet. Or at all.

“How about that you were coming up here looking for him? Did you tell anyone that?”

“No, I didn’t.” For a change, that’s the truth. “I don’t have many people in my life to talk to . . . other than Carlos. Can I see him?”

The woman opens the door wider. “Believe me, he’s all yours. Come on in.”

For Gaby, the miserable afternoon’s lone saving grace is that Junie drives her home, sparing her subways and buses.

He was heading as far as Morningside Heights, where he lives now, but as he put it, “What’s another forty or fifty blocks among friends?”

As they drive, he tells her about his life now—he’s a teacher and coach at a public school in Harlem during the school year, has a longtime live-in girlfriend who’s pressuring him to marry her. Gaby makes all the right comments, but she isn’t really listening.

She can’t stop thinking about Ben.

After she told Junie and Shakey that they’re divorced now, their concern over what Junie had seen in the parking lot seemed to subside, following their initial shocked reaction.

“Maybe he had too many beers,” Junie concluded, pronouncing it
bee-yahs,
just like in the good old days.

“There’s no sun,” Shakey added, “but it’s pretty damned hot out there.”

The guys figured Ben had been living it up with his date, overdid it, and was probably sleeping off a buzz somewhere.

Gaby would have been inclined to draw the same conclusion, except . . .

As they’d pointed out earlier, Ben isn’t much of a party guy. Not only that, but he never, ever had a drink at the beach, even when they were young and off-duty. He always said that open water and alcohol don’t mix. And forget about drugs: not his style at all.

Shakey and Junie both knew that, but they tried to make her aware—in their own awkward way—that her ex-husband might have changed since the divorce.

A week or two ago she might have believed them. But having spent time with Ben now, she realizes she knows him just as well as she ever did. He hasn’t changed. That’s part of the problem.

She’s in love with him all over again; rather, she never stopped loving him.

You just stopped liking yourself.

You’re the one who changed.

But it’s too late to tell Ben any of that. She tried last night, clumsily, and look where that got her.

Now he’s with some woman who . . .

Who . . . what?

Was rude to Junie? Drove away with Ben in her car?

Why is that so surprising? They were on a date.

Yes, but . . .

The scenario Junie painted just doesn’t sit right with Gaby. She’s worried about Ben. She can’t help it.

“Which one is it?” Junie has slowed the car as they head down Columbus Avenue.

“My building? Sorry—it’s right there.” She points; he brakes hard.

“Oops. Almost missed it.”

“My fault. I was spacing out.”

“It’s probably the heat. Sorry about the air-conditioning.” It’s broken, as Junie pointed out apologetically when they first got into the car.

“Are you kidding? You just saved me three different buses—or two buses and a subway. Thank you for the ride.”

“No problem. Come back and see us at the beach, Gaby. We all miss you.”

“I miss you guys, too. I will,” she promises. “Take care.”

As she walks across the sidewalk toward her building, she pushes sweat-dampened hair back from her face and notes the lazy hush hovering in the sultry air. It’s as if the city is holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable storm that will break the heat.

Sure enough, just as she steps into the vestibule, she hears a rumble of thunder in the distance.

Here it comes.

The putrid aroma hits Ivy as soon as Mrs. Rodriguez closes the front door behind her. It’s all she can do not to gag.

The house smells like . . . old food. Old, rotten, fishy food.

And no wonder. There are plastic bowls of cat food and milk everywhere—on the floor, on the furniture, even on the steps that lead up to the second floor, right inside the door.

This must be what the neighborhood kids were talking about when they told Heather Toomey that Mrs. Rodriguez is crazy. Eccentric is probably a better word. But harmless.

With her own brother’s prediction in mind—
You’re going to be a crazy, lonely old cat lady someday
—Ivy finds herself feeling sorry for this woman.

“Carlos is upstairs,” Mrs. Rodriguez tells her. “Come on.”

Ivy hangs back a little, put off by the smell. “Maybe you should just go get him. Tell him to come down.”

“I can try . . . but I don’t think he will.”

“Why not?”

“Because—what am I supposed to tell him? That his girlfriend is here? He doesn’t even know he
has
a girlfriend. He doesn’t know his own name. Maybe when he sees you, he’ll recognize you. It might trigger his memory to come back.”

That makes sense.

Still . . .

Ivy eyes the nearest saucer of milk. She can see that it’s curdled, even from here. Beside it sits a bowl of cat food. Is it her imagination or are the contents . . .
moving
?

Following her gaze, Mrs. Rodriguez explains, “That’s for my cat. His name is Señor Don Gato. After the song.”

“That’s nice,” she tells the woman, who apparently doesn’t grasp the idea of ironic pet names.

“Do you like cats?”

“I love them,” Ivy tells her, thinking wistfully of Garfield and Snoopy back home. “I have two.”

“Are they afraid of water, do you know?”

“Are they . . .” Trying to wrap her mind around the strange question, Ivy falters. “I guess. I mean, aren’t all cats afraid of water?”

“That’s what my mother told me when I was little. Well, I shouldn’t call her my mother. I thought of her as a mother, but it turned out she hated me. So what else is new?”

Ivy doesn’t know what to say to that, but the woman doesn’t wait for a reply.

“Come on,” she says abruptly. “Let’s go find your boyfriend.”

As they climb the stairs to the second floor, Ivy mulls her options.

Depending on whether Carlos’s memory comes back when he sees her, she may bring him back to her place. It would be good to spend some time alone with him before real life resumes. Anyway, she needs some time to figure out what to tell the police about how she found him.