Red on Red (32 page)

“Getting the bad guys?”

The same note again. Not antipathy, but maybe a vague disbelief, as if there were something boyish about it, like paintball or drag racing. The attitude was one he’d seen before, in people whose lives had been untouched by certain kinds of trouble. Nick liked that, too.

“Yeah. But not just that. I like being out there, as opposed to—what, inside? Finding things out, sometimes fixing them. ‘Helping people’ is something I have a hard time saying with a straight face—you come off like a contestant in a Miss America pageant—but it’s true, I think. Sometimes it’s true. You try, at least. How we met, you and me—the woman, Maria in the park—I wasn’t much help to her. But at least her mother knows now. She doesn’t wonder…. Well, I guess she does wonder. I guess she stares at the sky instead of at the phone, waiting for it to ring. It’s not good, but it’s better. You know for sure that one of them is a waste of time.”

That was grim, Nick thought. Didn’t he have any autopsy stories he could regale her with? Not the one about the dog and the DOA? Child abuse, animal cruelty? Who had told him that the way to a woman’s heart was through the abyss? At least Daysi hadn’t asked him if he was married. He wasn’t sure how he’d answer, and whether the answer would be any more cheerful. He laughed nervously, afraid he’d broken the mood. “Sorry. That was bleak.”

“That’s all right. We’re both grown-ups here.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Daysi laughed, and reached out to take his hand. Nick wished they were just starting dinner, instead of finishing. What next? Where to? Nick had no idea how this was done anymore. He supposed there would be an awkward pause before they kissed, but he believed they would kiss. He didn’t know where—her place, at the door? Which door, in the lobby or the apartment? He wished he’d taken the number for Esposito’s friend, at the Marriott, but he couldn’t imagine how he could suggest that they go there. He was almost tempted to call Esposito for advice. They’d had coffee and dessert, even brandy, and there was nothing more to have unless they were staying for breakfast. The owner appeared at the edge of the table.

“Will there be anything else?”

That’s a hell of a question, Nick thought. He looked at Daysi in the candlelight, at her wine-moistened mouth. His heart ached as her lips narrowed, and she barely shook her head. She smiled again. No, not “no” to everything—just no more, not here. Still, Nick hated to leave. He loved this place. Another brandy, maybe? He wanted to call Allison to thank her. No, not another brandy.

“Just the check, thanks.”

As Nick paid the bill, he became slightly anxious again, ashamed of his schoolboy eagerness as much as his schoolboy naïveté. When his phone rang, he was thankful and resentful at once, hesitant to answer—
How dare you! Bless you! Please don’t be Allison or IAB!
It was Esposito, and the conversation was brief. Nick’s eyes nearly welled up with gratitude. The next decision had been delayed by the new opportunity.

“I know it’s getting late, Daysi, but would you mind making a stop on the way? Trust me, you won’t mind.”

“I trust you.”

As Nick helped her on with her coat, he felt a little dizzy. He took her arm and led her outside to the still-summery night, raising a hand for a cab that seemed to be waiting for them. In the backseat, they sat close and kissed. There was no awkward moment. Ten blocks passed in ten seconds, and when they stopped and got out, Nick was thrilled to see in her face the almost fearful joy he’d felt throughout the evening. At Esposito’s most towering moments of vanity, his admiration for himself would have been dwarfed by Nick’s regard for him right then. They were at the Museum of Modern Art. Esposito knew a guy there.

“Really? No! How?”

Nick just smiled and tapped on the glass doors, and the security director approached, silver-haired and trim in his blue blazer. Daysi clung to Nick’s arm as the man let them in. He was a retired detective, and Nick didn’t even catch his name as they shook hands. He knew Esposito from wherever, whatever, how about that. He led them past the souvenir counters and ticket booths of the lobby—those were for ordinary people, not for them, not tonight—to the elevators, the top floor. Wide spaces, white walls, blond wood floors. Glass walls showed sheer drops, a backyard garden.

Daysi wanted an unguided tour, Nick knew, and he waved her on, seeing that his host, like many retired cops, was still hungry for shoptalk. Nick chatted with him about this captain, that case, mindful of the hospitality. The man was charming and affable, a natural storyteller, and Nick wanted to punch him in the head. Would he ever shut up? Nick wanted to be with Daysi, undistracted. He had mostly avoided thinking about Allison, and Esposito had kept his distance, however reluctantly. He owed them both vast and very different debts, and would settle in due course. Even if Nick had never really been alone with Daysi tonight, he was determined not to let things get any more crowded, with a third
wheel or a fifth.
Buddy, whatever your name is, please—I’m not getting any younger. My balls are gonna hit the water….
The old detective may have sensed that Nick remained with him out of patience rather than interest, and he was tactful enough to bring the conversation to a close.

“Anyway. So you’re the great Espo’s new partner, huh? You’re in for a ride. I don’t think he gets a fair shake from people. Just don’t get between him and a collar. Or a broad.”

The man laughed, and Nick did, too, without much enthusiasm, uneasy with the casual zigzag between compliment and backbite. They shook hands again, and Nick thanked him again, and as soon as he returned to Daysi, he forgot what had been said. She slipped an arm around his waist.

For long moments, they were church-quiet, humble trespassers, savoring the freedom of the empty space. There were pictures you saw on postcards, or dimly remembered from textbooks, worn out by too many dutiful viewings—now here, themselves, not just images but things. Bigger than you thought, or smaller, but always with another dimension—roiling surfaces, the paint shoveled on, scraped, shaped, made rough and real and deep. Names that were a daunting blur to Nick—Monet, Picasso—and the things that made their names: Water Lilies,
Les Demoiselles d’Avignon. Starry Night
, by the great van Goo.

“I can’t believe this, I can’t,” she said. “The last time I was here, it was mobbed. It was still wonderful, but next to this, now—it was like watching TV on a crowded train. Somebody’s always moving too fast, or taking too long. They mush up on you and you smell what they ate for lunch. Oh, look! Nick, come here, quick….”

Small ecstatic noises escaped from Daysi, but Nick was hardly less touched by it, the sense of privilege and discovery. There might have been some stellar alignment at work here, after all, he thought, beyond what his partner had finagled. And so they walked through the galleries, Nick just behind Daysi, so he could watch the beauty contemplating beauty, until the time came for them to go, home or not home, as luck would have it.

T
he sheets were thick and soft, with a velvety nap, and when Nick stretched out his arms, they didn’t reach the side of the bed. That was his first disorientation. Light in the room, sunlight pouring through lacy curtains. Not his place, definitely not. He hadn’t moved much, his eyes had just opened, but now he held still, motionless for concealment, until sense came back to him. A bowl of fresh flowers on the nightstand—what, in the business, was called a clue. Pale gold roses in a glass bowl. Yes, he knew where he was. What else? Nick was still happy, almost completely, but he was on guard against something, wary. His bad habit was still a good instinct, now and then.

It seemed they had talked about everything last night, but Nick had only really taken in what he’d wanted to hear. When they’d come home, come here, she’d urged Nick to be quiet, and he’d asked why. She had said something about her mother, her son. In the dark, she hadn’t been able to see his face, which was good. Yes, Nick knew about the family, he’d been told at least twice, but it had clearly failed to register. And it clearly failed to matter. Now he listened for voices, for the sound of footsteps, and did not move. He was happy not to, almost completely.

Nick slept again, a little longer, but so lightly that voices or footsteps would have woken him. Now it was time to go. Gun? He slipped a hand beneath the mattress, slid it around till he touched metal. Good. The gun was the worry, even though the shield could be more dangerous, in the wrong hands. If the gun was there, the shield would be. Clothes were over a chair. Watch? Nightstand. It was eleven o’clock. What had he slept, nine hours? That was more than he could remember sleeping in a long time. Maybe he should come here more often, wherever it was.
His cellphone announced itself, vibrating with a low hum, somewhere below. Nick picked it up from the floor and checked the caller: Esposito. Nick answered in a low voice, as the coast was not yet clear.

“Yeah?”

“Hey there, sunshine. Awake yet?”

“Yeah, I already did my yoga. What’s up?”

“Why are you talking like that? Are you hurt? Did the bad lady touch you?”

“You’re a pisser in the morning. Don’t let anybody tell you different.”

“Relax, Nick. It’s after eleven. Mom’s at work, kid’s at school. You need a ride?”

Nick breathed deeply, and he was tempted to fall back to sleep. Now he was completely happy. He could get used to this, he thought.

“Yeah, cool. Twenty minutes? An hour, make it an hour.”

“You got twenty. Why I called? Remember Miguel, from the Kiko kidnapping?”

“Yeah?”

“Dead.”

“In jail? On Rikers?”

“Yeah.”

Nick wasn’t sleepy anymore, and he wasn’t happy. How long had that lasted, eight seconds? There would be phone calls about this from downtown, and the thought of blocked numbers reminded Nick of Allison. He needed coffee.

“How?”

“They say he tripped.”

Gun, shield, handcuffs. Watch, phone, wallet, keys. Naked still, Nick had all he needed. Sunglasses even. All the better, ready to go. Nick put them on, so he wouldn’t forget them. He jumped from the bed and then stopped, turning around to look at it. The sweet sheets, still mussed. Nick didn’t even want to try to straighten them. Time to go, to love this and leave, at least for now. What should he call the mother? Señora? Mama? Mami? The son’s name was Esteban, Spanish for Steven. He remembered that he’d been told. Too much, too sudden; don’t get too far ahead. Enough to think about, the last night, the next. Still, it felt limitless, with Daysi. Nick went to the window and looked out—the river, the bridge, the Palisades, the country and beyond. Hadn’t he seen all that,
the other day? Different eyes. Nick made the bed and went back to the window. It was so beautiful here. Would Allison—Stop. He wasn’t a cheater in his heart, but he’d manage.

Nick had started to scowl, when he caught himself in the mirror, over the vanity, on the far side of the room. Bare-assed except for sunglasses, scratching himself, admiring the real estate. He laughed so hard he spat, and had to wipe up a wet fleck on the wall. Nick took off the glasses. Look for something, a note, a reality check, a note. The vanity is where the note would be. And yes, it was there, as short and sweet as he’d hoped for. “Hey, Sleepy! So much fun last night, thank you. I have to go to work, Mama, too, and Esteban is at school. XXOO, D.” Yes, perfect. He couldn’t believe she had dashed that off, the tone so breezy and fond. Nick had a pinball machine in his brain, and she got that right the first time? He picked up his clothes and went to shower. It calmed him, and he concentrated only on the beauty of the past night. He had to live a little, he told himself. He began to believe that he might.

Outside, Nick could have whistled at the day. The sun was warm, the wind mild, the trees red and gold, the river a stately gray. Gulls circled in the middle distance, a hawk in the farther sky. The line of buildings northward gave way to wild spaces, and south it led to the city, the sea. He had a moment to take it all in before Esposito pulled up, handing over coffee and a bottle of cologne.

“Thanks. Do I stink?”

“We all do, don’t we?”

“Tell you what—let’s swing by the apartment. I could use fresh socks and underwear.”

“Look at you, fancy restaurants and clean drawers. Ain’t you the society type!”

“I like to look my best when we go to Rikers. We’re going there, right?”

“We’ll stop by, have a look. They say he took a header down a flight of stairs. I set it up so we could have a word with Malcolm Cole, see if he’s got any news for us today.”

“What’s the story?”

“What I got, I told you. Maybe they’ll have something more when we get there.”

“Like your voodoo buddy said, there won’t be a trial.”

“That he did. But Kiko’s still out there. Fernando Dotti has to stick
around to talk to the DA, unless Kiko turns out to be another exceptional clearance. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for it. If Kiko gets zapped by a lightning bolt, I close two cases, the kidnapping and the Milton Cole homicide. He’s lawyered up on the homicide. I won’t get a statement. And without a statement, I got shit.”