“Oh, thanks,” she said.

  Sometimes he felt Nedra was on loan from the club. That the club was her real home. She just stopped in here, to change her clothes and grab a bite to eat—literally. Her body existed so she could have something to put on a stationary bike, an exercise mat, a massage table.

  He lay down next to her on top of the covers and slipped off his shoes.

  “How’s your head?” she asked.

  “It hurts,” he said. Then added quickly, “not from where he hit me, but from when I fell.”

  She nodded.

  Fucking Rick.

  He touched her arm, felt the hard muscle.

  “I should have had you out there to protect me.”

  She smiled. A nice smile. Somewhere in there, behind the Nedra of the club, the renovations, the lipo and Botox, the expensive haircuts, the expensive clothes, the diets and vitamins and wheat-grass shakes, the yoga and Pilates, was the girl he had married. Somewhere deep inside there. He wondered if he would ever see her again, hold her hand as he once did, make love to her with all his heart. The way he once did. Nedra, somewhere tucked away.

  He sighed and closed his eyes.

  He would call Dom tomorrow. Set something up. Get Dom focused on Rick. Just because the guy’s son was dead didn’t mean he could go around hurting people.

  Dom took off his shirt, picked up the twenty-pound weights, and did three sets of curls with each arm. Then he worked his triceps for a while. He got down on the carpet, held a weight to his chest, and did his hundred sit-ups. Then he turned over and did fifty push-ups. When he was done, he lay back on the broadloom and tried not to think about the shimmering chandelier of shit dangling above him, lit up with the name of Felix Hernandez, hanging by a thin wire, waiting to come crashing down on his head.

  He had to hope this thing with the rich kid getting dead would keep everyone occupied, that it went on for a while, the papers playing it up. Keeping people’s minds off Felix.

  Dom got up and showered. He popped open a beer and lay on his bed and thought about how glad he was not to be a cop anymore, not having to do everything by the book. He liked being a free agent, playing both sides, always on his toes. Like what Fred was asking him to do. You didn’t get to fuck with people that way as a cop; at least you weren’t supposed to.

  He wanted to see the novelist, Mae, thinking how she’d be a welcome change from the gum-chewing community college girls he was used to. Girls whose dads were all cops or firemen and whose older brothers were cops or firemen and whose one hope in life was to marry a cop or a fireman and give birth to baby boys who would grow up to become cops or firemen and baby girls who would sleep with cops and firemen indiscriminately for several years before finally settling down and marrying one.

  Mae clearly had class. He’d track down her number. Then call her up and tell her how he’d be moving to Manhattan soon. He’d have her over to his new place, open a nice bottle of wine, not one of those squat bottles of shitty Chianti wrapped in straw like they served in Tommy DeTolo’s, but a nice wine. French. They’d sit on the terrace and watch the sunset sipping French wine. He’d need some glasses. The ones with the stems.

  Dom popped in the Gelman surveillance video, sat back, and started running through it, jotting down some notes.

  8:18—The housekeeper leaves.

  8:30—The victim arrives, before everyone else, making a face at the camera, knowing it was there. Smart kid. A nose for security. Too bad he’s dead.

  9:23—Guests start coming, a steady stream until 11:14.

  12:52—A large group leaves, must all have to get home at the same time.

  1:24—Another large group, followed by a few stragglers.

  2:27—A boy leaves with a girl, the girl having trouble walking. He carries her down the steps.

  Then nothing, the patch of streetlight on the front stoop.

  Then a man walking up the front steps, trying the front door, turning the handle and walking in. Turning the handle and walking in! Forty thousand dollars’ worth of security and someone waltzes right in off the street. A large man. Familiar.

  After rewinding the tape several times, Dom was sure it was Lenny Bliss going into the house, turning the handle and going into the Gelmans’ house at 3:12 and then coming out twenty-two minutes later.

  Lenny Bliss was in the house around the time of the murder. For twenty-two minutes.

  Dom stopped the tape.

  What did you do in there, Detective? Were you looking for someone? A boy, perhaps? A boy who subsequently had his head smashed in by someone strong enough to do it?

  Dom wasn’t sure how, but he sensed this turn of events was going to work in his favor.

  He sat back in his chair and smiled.

  On his toes. Dom was always on his toes.

  Detective Bliss was there, that night, in the house around the time of the murder. And Dom had him on tape.

  Gotcha.

  TUESDAY

  Bliss lay in the bathtub, his eyes closed. He was thinking about Julia, his daughter, being talked about by the boys in school, the same way he and his friends had done. In the hallway, by their lockers, watching as Julia walked by, talking in deep, hushed tones, assessing his daughter’s tits, her ass. Rating her. Imagining how she would look naked, what it would be like to have her.

  He sat up, arms raised, fists clenched, ready to pummel the shit out of them, but succeeding only in sending a wave of water over the side of the tub, where it collected near the corner of the bathroom.

  Shit.

  He stood up and grabbed a towel and dropped it on the puddle to soak up the water. The last thing he needed was his downstairs neighbor’s ceiling leaking, like the time Cori was doing some kind of science experiment in the bathroom sink.

  He sat down slowly in the tub. Bliss knew a judge who could probably get him one of those house arrest collars, the ones they use to keep someone from leaving town. He could have it set for Julia’s bedroom, so he would know if she went out. He wondered if they came in assorted colors, to go with different outfits, in case Julia didn’t warm to the idea right away.

  He tried to relax. Breathe into the stretch. Be in the present.

  He pulled his leg toward Lotus. It moved more easily. Maybe because he was in the bath. Maybe because he was so pissed off. He wondered if too much stress was the same as no stress. Sometimes opposites worked that way. He almost had his leg in place when his butt slipped and he slid down and his nose filled with suds and warm water.

  Once again the floor was soaked, though not as badly.

  He settled back into his tub position, used his toe to turn the faucet to add more hot water. There was some yoga in that, he thought. It was his own pose. Toe Turning Faucet.

  His thoughts drifted back to his daughter.

  Even if she hadn’t stayed long at Owen’s party, there would be other parties. Give her time. Or worse, she would meet some sensitive, thoughtful guy with European parents who would take her to a Truffaut double feature, and after that for herbal tea, and then back to his apartment, which was empty because his parents were in Milan, at La Scala for the opening of the opera season. And soon he would be making his moves. Putting Kind of Blue on the CD player and making his well-practiced Euro moves.

  He’d have to have a talk with her. More calmly this time. Just the two of them. A father-daughter talk. And if that didn’t work, a cop-daughter talk. Sort this out. Then maybe Bliss could avoid dangling some high school boy out a tenth floor window until, weeping and drooling with fear, he promised never to touch Julia or any other girl again for the rest of his life.

  He got out of the tub, to get ready for work. He had to go back to Ben’s house, to talk with Mr. and Mrs. Purdy again.

  But he could deal with their grief and pain. Give me a murder, he thought. A triple homicide, any kind of dead body, because Lord knows it was a lot easier than being a parent.

  * * *

  The detectives were back. Rick let them in. Bliss spoke softly to him, sounding paternal. Comforting.

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Purdy?” he asked.

  “All right,” Rick said.

  “No more outbursts, I hope.”

  “I don’t know what got into me. I’ve never done anything like that before.”

  He felt Ellen stiffen, knew she was thinking now, when it was too late, he was taking control. How many times had she wanted him to raise his voice, shouting at Ben the way he did in the street last night at Fred. Getting angry. Climbing out of his suitcase and shouting at his son No. I don’t want you to do that!

  “We need to look in Ben’s room,” Bliss said. “Is that okay?”

  Rick led them down the hall. A funny little procession. Rick, the two detectives, and Ellen. The door was locked. Rick didn’t have the key.

  “Do you mind if we force it open?” Bliss asked.

  So polite, Rick thought. Nonjudgmental. That Rick couldn’t unlock his son’s room was evidence neither of Rick’s weakness nor of his pitiful impersonation of a father. It was just a minor inconvenience. Something to be overcome.

  But he knew Ellen wanted so badly to tell the detectives it was Rick’s fault. He’s the one who allowed this to happen. Not having a key to Ben’s room was just the tip of the iceberg. You have no idea, detectives, how bad it got. No consequences! No repercussions! She wanted them to know that Rick was the one who really killed their son. Never mind opening the door, never mind the clues. Arrest him! Arrest my husband! The one who works for my father.

  “Mr. Purdy?”

  “Huh?”

  Bliss gestured to the locked door.

  “Oh. Do whatever you have to,” Rick said.

  The other cop lifted his huge foot and kicked the door. Not using his shoulder the way Rick had always imagined, but his foot. That made more sense. The wood splintered. One more kick and it opened.

  That’s all it took.

  Of course Ben wasn’t in there now, so it was easier.

  The detectives went inside. Rick hovered by the door, Ellen near him.

  “Maybe it’s better if you don’t watch this,” Bliss said.

  “It’s okay,” Ellen said.

  Bliss got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bed. The bed stood where Ben’s crib once was. Rick remembered when they bought the crib. He and Ellen had picked it out together, spending hours in the baby store, Ellen with her belly about to burst. They were both so excited, eager to be parents, Ellen wanting so much to be a mother.

  They had gone to several stores to find exactly the right crib, a mobile to hang above it, and cushioned bumpers to go around it, to keep their boy from bumping his head (they knew from the whattayacallit, the X-ray thing, that it was a boy). And they bought a monitor so they could hear his cries from the next room if he got hurt. And safety plugs for the sockets and the locks for the drawers. All so he wouldn’t get hurt.

  Making his room safe so Ben would never get hurt. Child-proofing, they called it. So there was less risk. So nothing bad could happen to their son.

  The detectives surveyed the space, taking it in, like a couple thinking about buying the apartment. Rick and Ellen had done the same thing years ago, in this exact room, with Ellen’s mother, walking around what the agent said would be a perfect baby’s room. A perfect room for a perfect baby. And Ellen and her mother were mapping things out—the crib would go here, the changing table here, the rocking chair, where Ellen would sit while nursing, would go here. His mother-in-law with them because Ellen’s parents were providing the down payment for the apartment, were buying all the baby furniture. Luggage paying for everything.

  “He had his own phone line?” Bliss asked.

  His own line. Yes, Ben had his own line. Rick called him once, late at night. Rick sitting in the kitchen, thinking about Ben, how he hadn’t spoken to him, really spoken to his son in what seemed like months. Had no idea what was going on in Ben’s life. Like Ben was far away. And then it struck Rick—what do you do when people are far away? You call them. So he called his son, and the phone rang in his son’s room not ten feet away from where Rick sat. Ben didn’t answer. Apparently Ben wasn’t home, even though it was 10:30 on a school night. Consequences! Repercussions! So Rick left a message on his son’s answering machine. Hi Ben, it’s Dad. Rick asked how he was, what he’d been up to. Then Rick remembered saying nothing, trying to say I miss you but the words not coming, his mouth dry. Then he had hung up and quickly had an image of Ben playing the message and laughing, not hearing any of his father’s pain and sorrow. Playing it for his friends and laughing.

  “Mr. Purdy?”

  Just laughing.

  “Mr. Purdy?”

  “Yes.”

  “His own line?”

  “Yes.”

  Bliss made a note of the number. He hit *69 and listened, jotting down what Rick assumed was the number of Ben’s last incoming call. Then Bliss called someone, the precinct maybe, and told them to pull the phone records.

  The other detective, Ward, was searching the closet, feeling the sleeves of the sport jackets, checking their pockets, tapping the floorboards, opening drawers, feeling inside. They worked together without speaking, so proficient. Partners.

  “Are you looking for clues?” Ellen asked him.

  “Yes,” the detective said.

  “So am I,” she said, turning to Rick with disgust.

  Good, Rick thought. Maybe now they’ll get it. A taste of it. Pure Ellen. They would understand how he felt.

  “Your son keep a diary?” the detective asked.

  “My son had no feelings, detective,” Ellen said. “So he had no use for a diary. I’m sorry.”

  Excellent. Keep it up, Ellen.

  “You sure you want to watch this, Mrs. Purdy?” Bliss asked her. He was on his knees behind Ben’s bed, his arms between the mattress and the box spring, feeling for something. “We can call you if we need to ask…”

  “No,” Ellen said, interrupting her. “I want to be here when you find some clues. Maybe I’ll discover something about my son, what he was like. What he dreamt about. His secrets.”

  Rick felt Ellen’s eyes burning into him. But the detectives displayed no pity for her, the woman who had to live with a husband who let her down every day. Who sold luggage! Who worked for her father! The detectives simply went about their business.

  But Ellen wasn’t finished yet.

  Ellen always had more.

  “Do you have children?” she asked Detective Ward.

  “No,” Ward said.

  “You’re lucky,” Ellen said. “When you have a child you become vulnerable to the greatest pain a person can possibly feel. I’ve been thinking about this. Putting this together.”

  “Yes.”

  “If your husband dies, or your parents, there is always sadness. But if your child dies … if your child … I once thought when I was pregnant, I was carrying a little life inside me, a precious little life. Now I realize what I really had was a death growing in my belly.”

  “Mrs. Purdy,” Ward said, “I really think it would be better if …”

  Ellen interrupted him.

  “Maybe you have a young nephew or a niece …”

  “Ma’am …”

  “Because I was going to say, if you saw anything in there, in the room while you were searching it, saw anything you think some child might get some use out of, might bring them a little happiness, then you should feel free to take it. Once you’ve dusted it for prints, of course.”

  Bliss looked at Ward, who shrugged his shoulders. If the wife wants to stay, let her. They resumed the search.

  “Got something,” Bliss said.

  He pulled his hand from underneath the mattress. It was holding some kind of videotape. He put it in a plastic bag, then wrote something on the bag, perhaps: found under Ben’s mattress—father had no idea.

  “Got something here, too,” Ward said. He held the drawer with Ben’s underwear. Taped to the outer side of the back of the drawer was a baggie containing a small amount of white powder. The detectives didn’t seem very excited.

  “You know anything about this, Mr. Purdy?” the detective asked.

  This started Ellen laughing.

  “Him?” she said, turning to him with bitter disdain, hatred. “Know anything?” Her voice, incredulous. “About our son?”

  Then more laughing. They waited for her to stop. She didn’t. Her laughter turned to sobbing.

  Bliss turned to Rick, seeming genuinely mad at him for not taking care of his wife.

  But Rick couldn’t be bothered with that right now. He had something else on his mind. Rick wanted to ask the detectives if they knew where he could buy a gun. They’ll know, he thought. They deal with this kind of thing all the time. People buying guns.

  So, detective, tell me, where do you get one?

  And how much do they cost?

  And could you take me?

  Maybe later today, if you guys aren’t too busy, no more murders to investigate, do you think perhaps we could all go together and find me a gun?

  They were in the back of an appliance store on the West Side, owned by a guy Ward knew who wouldn’t say anything about the two detectives borrowing a camera to play back a videotape.

  Bliss and Ward stared at the image on the small screen of the camera, the front stoop of the Gelman house—empty. The Gelman backyard, empty.

  Bliss thought for a moment that this could be the tape, but once again he was disappointed. The clock in the bottom corner said 10:02 A.M. The date was last month.

  The tape showed Fred Gelman, arriving, keys in hand, at the front stoop of his house and unlocking the door. With him was a woman. She looked younger than Fred. Cut to the backyard. Cut back to Fred, turning to the woman, eyebrows raised salaciously, ê la Groucho, and opening the door. Cut to the backyard, cut to the front stoop, empty now, Fred and the woman inside.

  Like father, like son.

  Ward fast-forwarded the tape, caught the fleeting image of Fred and the woman leaving about two hours later.

  Then nothing. Then the housekeeper coming home with groceries.

  Bliss turned away.

 

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