Flesh and Blood (29 page)

“Why?”

“It's a police matter,” Frank said. “But they would have to release it if a relative requested it.”

“So?”

“Well, the way the law looks at it,” Frank said, “you're a relative.”

“And you want me to do that?” Fischelson asked. “Get her buried?”

“Yes.”

“But I'm just her brother-in-law. There's no blood between us.”

“You'll do,” Frank assured him.

For a moment, Fischelson thought about it, then, suddenly, a curious relaxation swept into his face. “All right,” he said. “I will.” He glanced back and forth from Farouk to Frank. “I mean, after all this, maybe I can make it up to her a little.” His eyes moved toward the window and the immense gray wall of Manhattan. “You know,” he said, “I was never really sure that I'd done the right thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“In talking to Stern,” Fischelson said. His eyes softened delicately and he seemed to reach deep down into himself, grasp something tenderly, and draw it out. “I've lived with this too long,” he said finally.

“With what?”

“With this secret,” Fischelson said. “This dreadful secret.”

“What secret?”

Fischelson hesitated a few seconds longer, then began.

“It was love,” he said. “You see, I was in love with Hannah. Terribly in love with her. I was married to her sister, but I was in love with her. She would have nothing to do with that, of course, so after a while I gave up.” He shrugged. “Then I found out about Feig, about what she'd done. I told Stern that I'd overhead it, but really, Naomi told me all about it. I don't know how she felt about it, but I thought that what Hannah had done was a terribly reckless thing, and so I went to Stern.” He glanced toward the bay. Far in the distance a great cruise ship inched its way out from behind the tip of Manhattan. “Maybe it was because I was really trying to save the union. But maybe it was because I wanted to destroy Hannah.” His eyes shifted over to Frank. “To this day, I don't really know.” He looked at Farouk. “I don't suppose I ever will.”

Frank put his notebook in his pocket and stood up. “I want to thank you for being willing to request Hannah's body,” he said.

Fischelson smiled sadly. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “I think it is probably the very least that I could do.”

It took them only a few minutes to reach the Midtown North precinct house on 54th Street. Tannenbaum was waiting for them upstairs, and sat at his desk patiently while Fischelson filled out the necessary forms, then signed the final request for Hannah's body.

“Well, that'll do it,” Tannenbaum said as he gathered up the papers and placed them in a small folder. He stood up and offered Mr. Fischelson his hand. “Thanks for coming in.”

Fischelson shook Tannenbaum's hand, then disappeared back down the stairs.

“Nice man,” Tannenbaum said to Frank as he sat back down behind his desk. He glanced quickly at Farouk, then turned his eyes back to Frank. “Well, I guess you've done your job,” he said.

“Yeah,” Frank said.

“Miss Covallo will no doubt throw in a nice bonus,” Tannenbaum added. Again, he glanced briefly at Farouk before looking back to Frank. “Anything else?”

“How soon will the body be available?” Frank asked.

“By this afternoon,” Tannenbaum said. “That soon enough for your client?”

“I guess it is.”

“Good,” Tannenbaum said matter-of-factly. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Anything else?”

“No,” Frank said.

“Okay,” Tannenbaum said. “Then, if you'll excuse me, I'll get back to work.” He looked at both of them pointedly. “Because I'm just a flatfoot in plainclothes, and so I still have a murder to solve.”

24

Frank was leaning on the black wrought-iron gate when Imalia's car pulled up to the curb a few hours later. The rear door swung open immediately.

“Hello, Frank,” Imalia said. She scooted back on the seat. “I'm off to the airport. Can we talk on the way?”

Frank pulled himself into the car and closed the door behind him.

“Sorry for mis inconvenience,” Imalia said lightly as the car made a left-hand turn on Ninth Avenue. “But I have to be in Washington tonight. It's quite a rush. I have to be back in New York tomorrow morning. I'm planning a huge party at the American Museum of Fashion for Sunday night.”

Frank nodded.

“Would you like a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“I hope you don't mind if I have one,” Imalia said. She pulled gently at a silver handle in front of her, and the bar swung into place. “I understand you have some important news,” she added as she dropped a single ice cube into her glass.

“Nothing I couldn't have told you on the phone,” Frank said.

“I don't like the phone,” Imalia said crossly. “It's too impersonal. I guess it comes from working with fabric. I like the personal touch.” She poured a scotch, then sat back comfortably in her seat. “Now, what is it?”

“As you know, Hannah had two sisters,” Frank began. “Both of them are dead. But one of them, Naomi, was married, and her husband is still alive.”

“Really? Where?”

“Here in New York,”

Imalia looked at him excitedly. “You've located him?”

“Yes.”

“That's wonderful, Frank.”

“He lives in Brooklyn,” Frank told her. “I spoke to him this morning.”

“Can he have the body released?” Imalia asked anxiously.

“He already has,” Frank said. “We went to Midtown North earlier today. He signed all the forms. Hannah's body will be ready for burial whenever it can be arranged.”

“Excellent, Frank,” Imalia said. “Just excellent. I mean it.”

“Mr. Fischelson—that's the brother-in-law—he said something about having her buried next to her sisters.”

“And where are they buried?”

“A Jewish cemetery in Brooklyn.”

“Fine,” Imalia said without hesitation. “That's certainly up to him, wouldn't you say?”

“Yes.”

“As for the expenses, I'd be happy to pay them.”

“He might appreciate that,” Frank said. “I don't get the idea that he has a lot of money.”

“Consider it done,” Imalia said briskly. “Absolutely no problem. It would be an honor, really.”

“I'll tell him.”

“You do that.”

“Do you want to know where it is?”

Imalia looked at him, puzzled. “Where what is?”

“The funeral,” Frank said. “The time and place.”

“Oh, sure,” Imalia said. “Just leave it on my machine if I'm out.”

“Okay.”

“Good,” Imalia said crisply. She lifted her glass. “Sure you wouldn't like to toast your success?”

Frank shook his head.

“Well, let me at least say that you've done a wonderful job on this, Frank,” Imalia told him. “Karen must be proud of you.”

Frank said nothing.

Imalia took a long drink, then returned her glass to the tray. “Of course, gratitude is not enough, is it?” she asked with a smile.

Frank glanced out the one-way window of the limousine. They were moving into a world of sleek boutiques and exclusive restaurants and toward the naked steel girders of the 59th Street Bridge.

“I mean your fee, of course,” Imalia said. “How would you like it?”

Frank continued to stare out the window. Blocks of art galleries swept by, along with scores of shop windows stocked with the very best that could be bought, hand-tooled leather, velvet, satin, fine wines and Russian caviar, the finest things on earth.

“Your fee, Frank,” Imalia said. “How would you like it?”

Frank did not look toward her. “It doesn't matter,” he said.

“Check? Cash?”

“It doesn't matter,” Frank repeated.

“And the amount?”

Frank looked at her. “Two thousand dollars.”

Imalia took out her checkbook. “Plus a bonus,” she said as she began to write it.

Again Frank turned back to the window. The car moved smoothly along Madison Avenue, then took a slow, graceful right turn onto 57th Street.

“Here you are,” Imalia said as she held the check toward him. “As you can see, I've added an extra two thousand.”

“That's not necessary,” Frank told her.

“It is, if you really want service,” Imalia said brightly. “And after all, that's what it's all about, don't you think?”

Frank pocketed the check.

“May I drop you somewhere?” Imalia asked.

“Drop?”

“Well, I don't suppose you want to ride all the way out to La Guardia, do you?” Imalia asked.

“No.”

“Next corner all right?”

“Yes,” Frank said.

Imalia gave the order, and the car drifted over to the corner of 57th Street and Third Avenue.

Frank got out immediately.

“And once again, thank you so very much, Frank,” Imalia said as he stood on the busy corner. “I'll recommend you to all my friends.” She smiled sweetly, and for an instant, Frank could see the girl she had once been, small, pale, her slender legs dangling from a fire escape above the teeming streets of Little Italy. For a moment he wanted to freeze her face just as he saw it, study it for hours, try to find the road that had taken her from Prince Street to the swank boutiques of the Upper East Side. It was a desire that she seemed to sense almost as quickly as he had felt it, and with a single, sudden movement, she closed the door between them, as if to block the purpose of his eyes.

It was not a very long walk to Karen's apartment, but he walked it slowly, thoughtfully, trying to come to terms with the vague uneasiness that always overtook him when a case was over. It was as if everything lived on the surface of something much deeper and more mysterious, a murky, shifting undercurrent. There were times when he wanted to dive deeper and deeper into it, define its limits, and then return to the upper reaches with an infinitely expanded sense of what lurked below, its dark, unreachable depths.

He was still thinking vaguely of Hannah, still lost in the hazy emptiness of a completed assignment, when he opened the door to the apartment and found Karen in the living room, her arms folded sternly over her chest, staring at him with her light blue eyes.

“I missed you last night,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“I decided not to go to work today,” Karen said. “I decided to wait for you. To wait as long as it took for you to come home.”

Frank said nothing.

“I am not an insecure woman, Frank,” Karen added.

“No, you're not.”

“I don't cling to people, you know that.”

“Yes.”

“And I won't cling to you,” she added flatly.

“I know.”

“But respect matters to me,” Karen said. “My self-respect matters.” She shook her head. “Maybe it was when we met. The way we met. Maybe I was just too vulnerable. Angelica and all that. Maybe you were. About Sarah. About Sheila. Both of us, too vulnerable.”

She waited for him to answer, and when he didn't, she added, “Maybe I made a big mistake, Frank.”

“Maybe we both did,” Frank said. “That's usually the way it happens.”

“So something's wrong,” Karen said. “It's not just been my imagination.”

“No.”

“It's not just some case you're on.”

“No, it's not.”

She stood up slowly. “What is it then?”

“I don't know,” Frank said. “Time, maybe. Change.”

“We've only been together for a year.”

“Something else, then. I don't know.”

“Love,” Karen said bluntly. “What else could it be?”

“I suppose,” Frank admitted.

A terrible sadness moved into her face, but even as he saw it, Frank knew that it was not specifically for him, but for the way things were, their complications and disappointments, the way life came, lingered awhile, then passed away before you could ever hope to learn how to live it.

“You were coming back for your things, weren't you?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Your two suits. What else?”

“Socks. Razor. Do you want a list?”

“Where are you going?”

“My office.”

“You're going to live there?”

“For a while.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?”

“Yes, I'm sure, Karen,” Frank said.

She looked at him affectionately. “So am I, Frank. I can't help it.”

“Why should you even try?” Frank asked. He smiled. “You're not a liar, Karen. You never have been.” He shrugged. “We tried something. It didn't work. Sometimes, that's all there is to it.”

She started to say something, thought better of it for a moment, then decided to go ahead. “Do you have … somebody?”

“No.”

“I wish you did, Frank. I truly wish you did.”

He did not answer her, and for a few seconds they simply gazed at each other as if they were strangers once again, just as they had been that first day, she in her paint-spattered jeans, he in his dusty brown suit.

“I do,” Karen said finally. “Have someone.”

“Lancaster,” Frank said. “I know.”

Karen nodded. “We haven't … but still …”

“It doesn't matter, Karen.”

“No, I suppose not,” Karen said. She turned away for a moment, her eyes fixed on the terrace. Then, after a time, she faced him once again, “Listen, Frank, if money's—”

“No,” Frank said quickly, “I just got paid, as a matter of fact. Your friend, Imalia.”

“You're finished with that case?”

Frank nodded.

“How did it come out?”

Frank smiled softly. “What difference does it make, Karen?”