Torrey sat up a little straighter. “I’m just part of a team, doing routine legwork.”
“How about funding? Is McGee helping with that?”
He frowned. “McGee is separate from the city.”
“What is it, then?”
He sighed in that exasperated way people do when their knowledge isn’t common knowledge and they want people to feel stupid. “McGee is an investment firm I started three years ago when I got my stockbroker license. With my connections at City Hall, I have been able to establish a good client base.”
“Who invests?”
“Anyone who wants to make money.”
“Like who, specifically?”
“Private citizens who make private investments.” In other words, he wasn’t going to give up names to me.
“If McGee is an investment firm, why don’t you have a public phone number, an office, something?”
Again with the sigh. “We have a very private clientele.”
“Why did Allison Sanders tell me you were expecting to make a lot of money because of the redevelopment project?”
He paused for a moment, then laughed. “Haven’t you ever embellished on something to impress someone?”
“But why would you mention Lundgren?”
“I made some money working for them before my city job.”
“Is Lundgren somehow involved with your investment company?” I asked.
He straightened his back and sucked in some air. “I’m not going to reveal private business, Ms. Seymour. I thought I made that clear.”
I was pissing him off, which probably wasn’t a good idea. I wondered where Tom was.
“I’m not sure how we got from Melissa’s unfortunate death to this. I’m afraid I have another appointment and will have to end this interview.” He stood up, the momentary anger gone, and I didn’t sense any urgency in his voice. I had to admit that I admired Mark Torrey for his control, which was probably why he was as successful as he was. “My business with McGee and Melissa have nothing in common. I hope you’ll keep that in mind when you’re writing your story.” He seemed so sure they didn’t, and I was so sure they did.
“Fine.” I could lie along with the best of them. I was a reporter, after all. “How did you get my phone number?”
He smiled. It was a patronizing smile, with something in it that I didn’t quite understand. “Have a nice evening.”
“If I have more questions, can I call you?”
The smile was back, and again I steeled myself against it. What the hell was it about this guy?
“No. This is the end of our interview. You’ll get nothing else from me.”
I shrugged. Maybe not from him, but I’d find someone else who wanted to talk. There’s always someone at the bottom who’s getting screwed who wants to spill the beans. And I was certain there were a lot of beans teetering on the edge of this one.
It wasn’t too late to write a story telling Torrey’s account of the night Melissa died, along with the scant stuff about McGee, since it was only 9:30 and deadline was at 10:15. I still hadn’t heard from Tom. I called the department and left a message with the dispatcher that Tom should get in touch with me as soon as possible.
I knocked the story out in about twenty minutes, then headed for home, stopping for some takeout at Boston Market. I hunkered down in front of the television while I ate my chicken and mashed potatoes.
I woke up a couple of times in the middle of the night with Allison’s image in front of my eyes. I moved my bathroom night-light to the bedroom, which served only to scare me more when I awoke to see odd shadows across the ceiling.
I was happy when the sun poked its rays through my mini-blinds, but not happy when the phone rang during my coffee and toast.
“You couldn’t call me?” Tom was pissed, more pissed than I expected.
“I did. Didn’t you get my message? I left two, one on your cell phone and the other at the department.”
I heard him fumbling with his phone. “Shit. Where is he?”
I gave him the address. “I met him there last night.”
“Alone?”
“He’s not a suspect. You’ve arrested someone. Or am I mistaken?”
“You’re going to get yourself into big trouble one of these days, pulling that kind of shit.”
I already had a mother and was about to tell him that when I spotted something under my door. I walked over to it, ignoring Tom’s voice, and picked up a piece of paper: “Stop asking questions or else.”
It was one of those notes that you always see in the movies, the ones that have all the letters cut out of magazines so handwriting analysts can’t be brought in to solve the crime.
“Tom.” He was going on about how I should make sure my pepper spray was in working order. “Tom.”
I think my voice was wavering just enough for him to stop. “What?”
“I’ve gotten some sort of threat.” I described the note.
“See? This is what I mean. I’ll be right there.”
I didn’t like it that someone had gotten into my building and stuffed this under my door while I was home, unaware. A key to the front door was necessary to gain access to any of the three apartments in the brownstone.
I don’t know my neighbors. I’m embarrassed to admit that, since I’ve lived here for five years. I like to keep to myself, and if I ever commit a heinous crime, my neighbors will be quoted as saying, “She was a quiet girl, kept to herself.” It was mostly that I enjoy being antisocial, and I felt if I knew my neighbors enough to become friends with them, all chance for privacy would be out the window. It would be like having a roommate, and after five roommates in three years of college, I knew I wasn’t exactly the roommate type. I could have blamed them for the trouble, but since I kept moving from room to room, it seemed I was developing a pattern that wasn’t conducive to living harmoniously with another human being. I didn’t even have a pet.
But here I was, going upstairs to actually face one of my neighbors.
“How did you get in the building? Never mind, I don’t want to buy whatever you’re selling.” His round face was scowling at me, and I felt I was face-to-face with a pit bull on two legs. Before I could say anything, he growled, “I bet it was that weirdo on the second floor who let you in. She has all sorts of riffraff coming in all the time.”
Could he mean me? I’d never laid eyes on this guy before, so chances were good he’d never seen me, either. But riffraff? Could a member of the New Haven police department be riffraff? Tom would get a kick out of that.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir.” I put on my reporter attitude, which wasn’t much but it was the best I could do at this hour. “But I’m the woman who lives on the second floor. I was just wondering if you’d seen anyone wandering the stairwell.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, obviously not believing me. “Who are you?”
I held out my hand, although I was afraid he’d take a bite out of it. “Anne Seymour. I really do live downstairs.”
“Why do you want to know if someone’s been in the stairwell?” He didn’t take my hand. I must really have gotten some sort of reputation around here I didn’t know about. It was a little disconcerting, because although I didn’t really give a shit, I still thought unless someone got to know me, he might think I was okay.
“Someone pushed a note under my door, and I’m trying to find out who it was,” I explained.
“Well, it wasn’t me.” He slammed the door in my face before I could say anything more.
One down, one to go.
I’d seen the woman who lived below me. By her mode of dress, I figured her for a New Age type, with the flowing print skirts and big and plentiful bangle jewelry. Sometimes I could smell incense as I went up the stairs, which made me nostalgic for simpler days.
“Yes?” I could see her eyes from behind the chain lock.
“I’m Anne Seymour, I live upstairs. I was wondering if you’d seen anyone just now in the stairwell.”
“He said he knew you.”
“Who ‘he’? Can you describe him?”
“So you didn’t know him?”
I shook my head. “No, but he pushed a note under my door.”
The door opened a little farther, but the chain remained. I could now see fuzzy brown hair and a square chin. “What sort of note?”
“Let’s just say he’s not my biggest fan.”
“Really?”
I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true, I felt like saying, but I didn’t want to push it, so I kept my mouth shut. Although I was getting a little information about the mysterious note, meeting my neighbors was all I’d expected and more. “What did he look like?” I tried again.
“Oh, about average.”
I suppressed the urge to scream. “Average what?” My voice was rising with my frustration.
“Oh, brown hair, medium build. I didn’t really pay attention.”
Why the hell not? I wanted to ask. She wouldn’t open her door for me and I lived upstairs. Instead, she lets in a complete stranger who might possibly be a murderer. “Was he young, old?” I prompted.
“Oh, maybe about twenty or so. Maybe younger, maybe older.”
This was getting me nowhere.
“Did you ask Walter about this? Maybe he saw him.”
“Walter?”
“He lives upstairs.”
Oh, yeah, him. Mr. Pit Bull. “I was up there already. I don’t think he saw anyone.”
“That’s all I can tell you.”
I smelled that incense again and heard some sort of weird Yanni-like music in the background. “Thanks,” I said as I started back up the stairs.
When I was almost to my apartment, I heard footsteps behind me, and when I turned, she was standing there in an Indian sarong. “He had a mole on his chin. It was about the size of a dime.”
I stared at her. She really was very pretty, in that breathless sort of way. I guessed she was in her mid- to late twenties.
“My name is Amber Pfeiffer. It’s nice to finally meet you. You’re the reporter for the newspaper, aren’t you?”
Oh, Christ, my reputation was preceding me. “Yeah. A mole?”
“I don’t know if that helps you or not.”
“It might.”
“I’m sorry I let him in. But like I said, he said he knew you.”
Just then, Walter the Pit Bull came down the stairs and the three of us stood there, staring at each other. Walter was the first to break the ice, which seemed only appropriate.
“What the hell’s going on here? Amber, you’re talking to this woman?”
“I let that guy in, the one she’s asking about.”
They were talking as if I wasn’t there, and I wondered how many times they’d talked about me behind my back. Then I remembered I didn’t care.
Walter turned to me. “Just go back into your own world and let us be.”
So much for the Welcome Wagon. But just as I was about to open my door, Tom came bounding up the stairs and froze just below us, his eyes asking me what was going on.
I pointed to Amber. “She saw a guy in here. Probably the guy who left the note. He got in by telling her he knew me.”
“You really shouldn’t let strangers in the building,” he told Amber. “And who left the door unlocked downstairs?”
“I didn’t realize she didn’t know him, Tom.” How did she know his name? And she was batting her eyes at him. Really. I could see his eyes soften. It pissed me off.
“You two know each other?”
They looked at me at the same time, but Tom spoke first. “I usually run into Amber in the mornings when I’m leaving and she’s coming in from her run.”
A beatnik who runs? I guess nowadays anyone can do anything. I still didn’t like it that they seemed to have some sort of relationship, peripheral as it might be.
“Did you see anyone, Walter?”
Oh, Christ, he knew the Pit Bull, too.
“No, Tom. I just got up and was making my coffee when she,” he tossed his head in my direction, “interrupted me.”
“He had a mole on his chin,” Amber repeated.
Tom started writing this shit down. I just stood there like an idiot.
“What else did he look like?”
“Brown hair, brown eyes, average height—”
“Jesus, Tom, that could be anyone,” I interrupted.
Tom frowned at me. “Anything can help.”
I rolled my eyes and went into my apartment and slammed the door. I could hear the voices just outside, murmuring, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I poured myself another cup of coffee and was stirring a spoonful of sugar into it when Tom came in.
“You really shouldn’t be so rude,” he scolded.
“I was perfectly happy not knowing my neighbors.”
“They’re really quite nice. Why do you have to be so mean?”
I don’t know what happened at that moment, but I burst into tears. I never burst into tears. I am one of those people who can see
Terms of Endearment
and laugh at the end. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the thought that my life would never be the same now that I knew who my neighbors were. I would have to say hello on the stairs, let them into the building if they forgot their keys, help them with grocery bags. Oh, God, I might have to move.
And it might have had something to do with that note, the one Tom was inspecting carefully, not even paying attention to my waterworks.
“David Best’s roommate has a mole on his chin,” he said quietly.
“What?” I blew my nose.
“You heard me.”
“You’re kidding, right? I’m certain it’s Mark Torrey, it has to be. Especially after my interview with him last night. He really didn’t like me asking anything about McGee.”
“But he didn’t have to talk to you. He knew you were going to ask questions, that’s your job. He expected it. But whoever sent you this wants you to stop doing your job.” He stared at it a little longer, and I drank some of my coffee. “No,” he said, sitting on the sofa, “this is someone else.”
“But I haven’t talked to David Best since before his arrest. And he was in custody when Allison was killed.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Posted bond. I didn’t even know about it until I got back to headquarters.”
“His bail was a million dollars.” I couldn’t believe they’d let him out.
“And he comes from a very rich and influential family.” Tom had a point.
I remembered something. “Allison said she saw David the night Melissa was killed.”
“Do you think David Best knew you were asking Allison questions?”