Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery Page 3

  “I heard someone else was in the apartment,” Max said.

  “Sure was. An older lady. Probably some relative. You know these Puerto Ricans.”

  Max’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. Family’s important to them.”

  The man’s grimace dried up.

  “How can I get hold of the landlord?” Max said. “I need to see the apartment.”

  “He’s a big shot doctor. Has an answering service. Only calls you back if you’re changing the time of his golf game. The person you need to speak with is Ivan, the caretaker. But he doesn’t have a phone. Just gotta wait ’til he shows up for the rent.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Max said.

  “No problem.”

  Max retraced his steps and shuffled up the front stairs. He wasn’t about to contact Ivan or the doctor. He didn’t want anyone nosing around his investigation. Raking his fingers down a worn pad of call buttons, he was immediately buzzed in. Pity. No one gave him the chance to use his favorite line – Publisher’s Clearinghouse.

  Paloma’s apartment was to the right. The door, no longer on its hinges, was propped into position. He heaved it aside and stood on the threshold. The last time he’d been in Agnes’s place was fifteen years earlier. It wasn’t an apartment back then, but a partially renovated house with all the trappings – walls in various states of repair, toys scattered everywhere, and hubby’s slippers by the door. His heart pounded. After years of watching from the outside, he now had unencumbered access into her world.

  He stepped in.

  The room was shrouded in soot and ash; the burnt smell, pungent and damp. Shards of glass cracked under his shoes as he walked on the soaked rug. The couch, located directly beneath the boarded-up bay window, had been hacked to smithereens. Its wooden frame and wire springs were a tangled mess. Tufts of burnt upholstery and batting littered the floor along with downed Venetian blinds, gnarled and twisted. Paint on the woodwork had blackened and cracked like alligator skin. Adjacent walls had been hacked, exposing lathe and plaster. This was no clambake.

  Against the opposite wall ran a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Max pulled out a penlight. Heavy, soaked hardcovers with spines of varying thickness and height stood in neat rows. While the books had not burned, the water damage was evident. Paloma had an inquisitive mind. Besides the various novels and Reader’s Digest collections, there were books on cooking, mathematics, auto repair, business, and art history. Library of Congress numbers and Dewey decimals catalogued a good percentage. Either Paloma had gone to a load of library sales or had one serious overdue account. He pulled out a book, The Steno’s Bible, and checked the back cover. To his surprise it was stamped from the Buffalo and Erie County Library. He flipped to the opening pages – published in 1968. Examples and exercises in curlicued lines followed. A textbook? He replaced it. Standing back, he passed the beam of light across. Meaningless titles of obscure books followed in seemingly random order. Something struck him about the books on the higher shelf. Their bindings were darker, cracked; their library numbers, handwritten, not typed. He pulled the first book down, Corset and Crinoline by W. B. Lord. Stamped among the aged-brown pages was Buffalo Library. Published in 1882, the book was filled with engravings of women in stiff-looking undergarments. He slapped the book closed. From all appearances it looked like a collectible. Suddenly he had a thought. On the shelf below the stenography book, he pulled out, The Life and Times of Jean Míro, and checked the publication date – 1969. He then grabbed the last book on the lowermost shelf, publication date – 1982. Smiling to himself, he cracked the pattern. The books were in chronological order by publication date. An odd quirk.

  Crossing the living room, he entered a bedroom, her bedroom. Dim light seeped through sooty windows. The water damage was significantly less. Latex gloves, empty plastic bags, syringe caps surrounded the disheveled bed. This was where Daisy’s mother must’ve been found.

  Beyond the bedroom was a galley kitchen. Max stepped down the cramped aisle and tugged each knob of the top and bottom cupboards. Canned goods, cleaning supplies, dishes, utensils were organized into neat rows and compact stacks. A dank, damp smell swelled from the unlit, half-filled refrigerator. He pulled out a milk carton and checked its expiration, a week overdue. Bottles of beer lay on the second rack. The Agnes he knew didn’t drink. Could there be another man? He slammed the door. A short hall led him to the bathroom, the farthest room from the fire. He whipped open the medicine cabinet and ran his eyes along the shelves looking for evidence – shaving cream, razors, Right Guard. But there wasn’t a hint of a male companion. Relieved, he shut the cabinet. Hell, even if there were, he’d win her over with his charm. He could play that game.

  Natural light seeped in from an area on the other side of the tub. He pulled the shower curtain aside. More burnt debris had collected in the tub. But why so far away and separate?

  Rolling up his sleeves, he reached into the bathtub and sifted through the sooty paste. Slivers of metal were embedded in the goo. Staples. Casting a beam of light to the floor, he noticed several sets of back and forth footprints. Following the trail, he walked beyond the kitchen and back into the bedroom, finally stopping at a desk. Someone had made several trips from the desk to the bathtub.

  He pulled out the drawers. Except for some paperclips and odd change, they were empty.

  Highlighting the footsteps, he looked more closely. These weren’t boots, but someone with shoes and small feet. Agnes?

  He glanced at his watch – 5:30 – then reached for the phone and hit the redial button.

  “Thank you for calling United Airlines, LaGuardia, how can I help you?”

  It was a long shot, but Max was used to long shots. “I have to get hold of my wife. She’s on a United flight. There’s been a terrible accident. Our son. Please page Paloma Dove.”

  “What’s the flight number?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t say. Please help me.”

  He heard the clicking keys of a computer. “Would that be to Buffalo, sir?”

  Buffalo? She was heading to Buffalo? “Yes.”

  “One moment.”

  Max wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder. The public address system echoed though the connection. “Paloma Dove, please report to the United Service Desk.”

  From the top dresser drawer, a corner piece of silken material poked out. He tugged at it. A long purple and green scarf, soft and gauzy, unraveled. He put it to his nose, closed his eyes, and breathed in. Smoke had permeated every fiber. Her scent was long gone. Even so, he buried it in his pocket, like a dog with a bone.

  Chapter Five

  Wrapped in a flimsy hospital gown, Paloma blew on her hands then rubbed her upper arms. While sitting half-naked on a vinyl exam table waiting to be poked and prodded by unfamiliar hands and cold metal instruments wasn’t her favorite place to be, it was better than the alternative – lying on a slab with a tag tied around her toe. She kneaded a muscle in the back of her neck and breathed deeply. Her escape from the airport had been a success. Not only had she gotten out with her life, she’d also been spared a night in jail with complimentary hose down. Goose bumps erupted as she recalled the needle-sharp pricks of frigid water that had pelted her raw skin fifteen years earlier, when she’d been arrested for vagrancy. Prehistoric times. She was older now, more experienced, and had mastered the art of duck and run.

  Footsteps approached from the hall. Two men spoke. She strained to hear.

  “She’s here on a 9.41. Needs an evaluation. Airport security had to subdue her.”

  “Why was she arrested?” The voice was accented.

  “Let’s see now.” Some papers rustled. “We have her for loitering, acting suspicious, failing to obey an officer’s request and resisting arrest.”

  “All one hundred and twenty pounds of her?”

  “Doc, I’m just the messenger.”

  “What else?”

  “Typical Jane Doe material. Dirty. No name, no rank, no serial number. May be dea
f, may be dumb. All in all, a great gal to have around during a Yankee game.”

  “The Yankees stink.”

  “Whatever. I got to run. Any more questions?”

  “No. You can go.”

  The two men walked by the open door. The man in blue was the cop who’d transported her to the medical center in Queens. The other man, tall and bronze-skinned, wore a white shirt and khaki pants.

  Paloma rubbed her pounding forehead. Dried blood flaked to the floor. Waves of nausea continued, but the shivers and shakes were lessening. If only she could sleep for a few –

  A door slammed, jolting her entire body.

  “I am sorry,” said the tall, dark man she’d seen moments earlier.

  Paloma avoided eye contact.

  He approached and placed a clipboard on a small metal desk. “I’m Doctor Sanjay. I need to examine you.”

  Paloma fixed an unblinking stare across the room. She had to stop thinking, no words, no expressions, absolutely nothing to give herself away.

  The doctor leveled his face with hers. His black eyes advanced alarmingly close. He looked at the lump on her forehead. “This will have to be cleaned, but it is not serious.”

  He pulled a penlight from his shirt pocket and shined it into her left eye, then her right. “Looks good. Now open wide.”

  She didn’t move. He mimed what he wanted her to do. She complied.

  He beamed the light into her mouth and circled it around. He stopped short for a moment. Their eyes locked. “Fine,” he said. He turned her head to the side and drew another instrument from his lab pocket. “Now your ears.” He checked them both. With a stethoscope, he listened to her heart and lungs. He eased away from her. “All is clear on the western front,” he said and wrote some notations on a pink form.

  Continuing with the exam, he felt her neck, making small circles with the pads of his fingertips. He looked at her fingers, palms, and pressed around her ankles. Paloma breathed deeply as he busied himself elsewhere, away from her face, her eyes. He took off the green foam slippers and gingerly began to feel her shriveled leg. A shudder passed through her. She didn’t like to be touched there by anyone, at anytime. He ran his cupped hand warily but with certainty from her inner thigh down the length of her leg. His hands were large, all encompassing, his grip, firm. She kept quiet, suppressing every desire to pull away. If she were to look at him, what would she see? Disgust? Fascination? He set the leg down and scribbled more notes. She watched the letters being formed: poliomyelitis. He then turned to her. “So, do you want the good news or the bad news?”

  Paloma stared at the speckled design of the floor tile.

  “In your case, the good news is the bad news. Shall I go on? Okay, the good news is that you can hear, talk and most likely have a nice home to go to. And the bad news is… how do you say it? The jig is up. Am I right or am I right?”

  Paloma smoothed out the wrinkles in her hospital gown.

  The doctor smiled for the first time. “You know what this is like? It is like being home. My wife gives me the silent treatment all the time. But it is not a problem. I just keep talking and talking. I follow her from one room to another. Eventually she comes around, even if it is only to tell me to shut up.” He drummed his fingers on the clipboard. “I know you can hear me. I did not slam the door that hard. I also know you are not homeless. The soles of your feet are like a baby’s bottom and you have expensive dental work. No silver in your mouth, just those resin fillings and two nicely-done caps. I would really like to know who you go to. You see, I go to my brother, Basu. Yes, I know what you are thinking, these foreign doctors are taking over. Anyway, do not get me wrong, Basu is terrific. But sometimes with family he cuts corners by saving money on the anesthesia. So what do you say? Who is your dentist?”

  Her right leg began to shake, ever so slightly.

  “Did I tell you how I know you can talk? It is simple. People who cannot talk try very hard to talk. They look you in the face. They point their fingers and grunt and groan. They grab your arms and drag you around. They do everything they can to express themselves. You are very lucky. You still have a voice.” He then reached, grabbed her knee and held it steady. “What are you afraid of?”

  The tremors were returning, rising up her spine. She felt very cold. The more she tried to calm herself, the more anxious she was becoming. “Could I please have a blanket?” she asked.

  The doctor nodded, opened the door and disappeared into the hall.

  “Doctor,” a woman’s voice rushed. “Willis is refusing to take his meds and the man in observation wants to see his lawyer. Oh yes, the ward nurse called. The last patient we sent up had an ice pick in his slipper.”

  Good, a reprieve. Perhaps she could sneak out while –

  “Willis,” the doctor yelled, “if you do not take your medicine I will have to send you upstairs, and you do not want to go there. People have ice picks.” In a lower tone, he added, “Let the man make his phone call. Just make sure it is not long distance. As for the ward nurse tell her ‘shit happens’.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  The doctor reentered the room with a blanket and closed the door. He walked over to Paloma and covered her shoulders.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “It is my pleasure. Now you can help me. What is your name?”

  What was her name? Which one should she give him? She considered the doctor’s warm, consoling eyes.

  “Mary,” she answered.

  He paused momentarily, then grinned. “Well, Mary, why are you so nervous?”

  “You aren’t going to tell anyone, are you?”

  “Everything you say to me is confidential.”

  Barely above a whisper, she said, “A man is trying to kill me.”

  He stood unperturbed. “Do you know who?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, then, how is he trying to kill you?”

  She tightened the blanket around her. “In more ways than one.”

  The doctor nodded. “How so?”

  “The first time was yesterday morning. I was in Chicago waiting for an airport limo. A white car with tinted glass pulled up. I didn’t give it much thought until the passenger’s side window cracked open and the barrel of a rifle stuck out. It happened very quickly. But when the limo came the car took off.”

  “Did you tell anyone what you saw?”

  “No. It happened so fast.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway after I arrived in the City, I felt someone’s eyes on me. It was a strong feeling. I looked behind me and, not too far off, there was a man standing. He wore a trench coat and a straw hat. The moment I noticed him, he looked away.”

  “Tell me, do you often feel someone is following you?”

  “Following me? You mean normally?”

  “Yes, normally.”

  Paloma often felt she was being watched, followed at times. But this was New York City. She went out at night. A woman alone had to be careful. “Sometimes.”

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  “Friday.”

  “And the date?”

  “June fifteenth.”

  “Do you ever hear voices?”

  He didn’t believe her. “I hear your voice. There’s more.”

  “Of course. Go on.”

  “Shortly after seeing him, I went into the subway and was standing on the platform when I heard a pop and felt a strong push in my side. I fell down from the impact. Then…” She swallowed hard. “I saw the back of that man rushing away, weaving through the crowd. First, I figured he had pushed me. But when I got up…” Paloma’s voice began to quiver. “I’d been shot. You see, I had some books in my carry-on and the bullet went through them and just grazed my stomach.”

  Paloma lifted her hospital gown and pulled down the waistband of her panties. A large crimson circle blotted the patch of gauze. The doctor loosened a corner of the dressing and looked closely.

  “I spent most of last n
ight at St. Vincent’s emergency room. While I was there, my apartment was firebombed and some poor woman was killed.”

  “Who was the woman?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why was she in your apartment?”

  “I don’t know! But I think whoever bombed the place was after me. Go look in the Times. It’s all there. Do you believe me now?”

  “Would you believe me if I told you this same story?”

  “Why would I lie?”

  “Are you saying one man tried to kill you three times and each time he failed? You are very lucky indeed.”

  “Lucky? I don’t feel lucky.”

  “Why were you at the airport earlier today?”

  “I was trying to get away.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “As I was about to board the plane, I was paged.”

  “By whom?”

  Frustrated, her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know. The man, I suppose. I figured if I got myself arrested, I’d at least have a police escort.”

  “Did you tell this to the police?”

  Paloma gave a rueful smile. “I don’t talk to police.”

  “And why is that?”

  Paloma’s face tightened. “I just don’t.”

  “Fine then,” the doctor said. “Do you have anything else to say?”

  Paloma needed to plead her case, to trust in the kindness of a stranger. “Doctor, do you know why animals live longer in a cage than in the wild?”

  He only smiled sympathetically.

  “It’s because they don’t have the stress, no worrying about food, bad weather. No predators, either. Please admit me. I need to rest and figure things out.”

  “I can only keep you if you are a danger to yourself or others. Neither appears to be the case.”

  “But I have no money. If I could just stay the week-end.”

  “I am certain you have friends to help you. I will give you access to a phone to make arrangements. If you truly feel in danger, I would strongly advise that you contact the police, but that is your choice. In any event to complete the paperwork, I will need some identifying information.” He looked pointedly at her. “As I said, all information is kept confidential and whatever you say is not for me to verify. Do you understand?”