Lawrence Block - Manhattan Noir

“Another girl’s been murdered and carved up down in the Village,” Roger said, reading the folded Times as he sat at the kitchen table and sipped his coffee. “The news media’s calling the killer the Slicer. Not very imaginative.”

“I don’t think I want to hear about this at breakfast,” Laura said. She was sitting across from Roger, pouring milk over a bowl of cracked wheat cereal with raisins in it.

“The guy must be a frustrated surgeon. Or a butcher.”

Laura stood up and stalked to the window, standing with her back very straight and staring out over the fire escape.

“Take it easy,” Roger said. “I didn’t mean to spook you.”

Without turning around, she said, “Two weeks ago, the morning after another girl was killed the same way, I found what might be blood on Davy’s shirt.”

“So?”

“I found blood on his shirt this morning, too. Do you want me to show you?”

Roger picked up his cup, then paused, as if he’d changed his mind about coffee this morning. He placed the cup perfectly in its saucer. “No. I don’t see the necessity.”

“We could ask Davy if there’s a necessity.”

“Simple as that?”

“Yes.” But she knew it really wasn’t that simple. She was terrified of how Davy might reply. Even more terrified of what might follow. The media, the police and judges and juries, the system. Once the system, this city, had you by the throat, it shook and shook until there was nothing left of you. It might do that to Davy. To his family. Wasn’t it always the family’s fault? Over and over you heard that, how the killer was himself a victim.

Look at me. His mother. Look what I’m thinking. A victim and killer. Beautiful Davy.

It could be true. That terrified her more than anything.

Still, she had to know for sure.

“We could find out without telling Davy,” she said.

“It’s absurd even to think such a thing.” Roger sounded angry now. She understood why.

“We can’t simply do nothing. At least we can figure out what to do if we must do something.”

“I don’t follow you,” Roger said, sipping his coffee and making a display of calm.

“I don’t want you to follow me,” Laura said. “I want you to follow Davy.”

Two weeks later, when Davy emerged from his room after doing his homework, he said goodbye, then left for one of his unannounced destinations. This time neither Laura nor Roger pressed him for an explanation. Roger counted to twenty, then followed Davy.

“You’ll phone me?” Holly said as her husband left the apartment.

“I’ll phone you.”

Roger followed his son to a subway station, then boarded a car behind Davy’s and watched at each stop until he was among the passengers streaming out onto the platform.

Davy had gotten off at a stop in the Village. Roger hurriedly squeezed through incoming subway riders before the doors slid closed, then followed him up to the street.

It was a warm, pleasant evening, and plenty of people were out strolling the sidewalks and eating at outdoor cafés, so it was easy to keep Davy in sight without being noticed. He was unhurried yet seemed to walk with purpose, as if he knew where he was going rather than simply ambling around enjoying his surroundings.

Davy turned a corner, then made his way through a maze of narrow, crooked streets that were fairly dark but less crowded. Roger had to fall back, and it became more difficult to follow without being seen.

Suddenly Davy slowed and looked about, as if searching the block of old brick apartment buildings for an address. Roger picked up his pace, and from the other side of the street saw Davy enter the lighted vestibule of a beat-up structure whose bricks had years ago been painted white. Davy craned his neck slightly as if speaking into an intercom.

Roger jogged a few steps and saw that there was no inner door that needed to be buzzed open; Davy had simply announced himself. Roger watched his son take two wooden steps to a small landing and rap gently with his knuckles on the door to an apartment on his left. Moving closer still, Roger glimpsed a tall, thin, blond girl open the door and usher Davy inside.

Roger walked back across the street and studied the windows of what must be the front west ground-floor apartment, the one Davy had entered. There was protective iron grillwork over the windows. Shades were pulled, drapes drawn tightly shut. Only narrow angles of light made their way outside.

Feeling like an undercover cop-hoping a real undercover cop wouldn’t notice him-Roger dug his cell phone out of his pocket and called Laura.

“He’s in the Village visiting a tall blond girl-woman,” he said, then explained in detail his location and Davy’s, and how they’d gotten there. “I just caught a glimpse of her, but she looked very pretty. Maybe in her twenties.”

“You sound jealous.”

That seemed an odd thing for Laura to say. Was it in my voice?“So what’s our move now?” he asked. Laura seemed to have taken charge of the operation. “Should I bust in and yell for them to freeze?”

“You shouldn’t make light of it,” she said.

“Maybe we both should. All we’ve found out is Davy’s visiting a girlfriend-if he’s lucky.”

“Remember the blood on his shirts.”

“ If it was blood.”

“I’ll come down there,” Laura said. “I’m going to join you.”

“What if Davy leaves before you get here?”

“If he does, let him leave. Don’t let him see you.”

“Then?”

“We’ll go into that apartment building and ring a doorbell.”

Roger didn’t notice Laura at first. She must have walked close to the buildings, on his side of the street. He saw that she was wearing a dark jacket, jeans, and her jogging shoes.

“Is he still in there?” she asked.

“No. He left about ten minutes ago.”

“How did he look?” Laura’s eyes shone like a cat’s in the dim reflected light of the streetlamp at the corner.

“He looked like he always looks. He seemed… calm.” Laura was standing motionless, in a strangely awkward yet poised position. “I doubt if anything happened in there,” Roger added, wondering himself how he could possibly hazard that guess.

“Let’s find out.” Laura started across the street.

Roger gripped her shoulder, stopping her. “And tell the woman what?”

“That we’re Davy’s parents.”

“For God’s sake, Laura!”

“We’ll tell her we’re taking a survey,” Laura said. “Or that we’re collecting food for charity.” She walked out from beneath his hand and he fell in behind her as they crossed the street and entered the building.

The pale green vestibule was more brightly lit than it appeared from outside-which was reassuring-and smelled as if it had been recently painted. Even so, there was fresh graffiti on the wall above the mailboxes in crude black lettering: God is watching over somebody else.

“It has to be that one,” Roger said, pointing up the stairs to the landing. He could see a brass letter and numeral, 1W, on the door to the girl’s apartment.

Laura pressed the brass button and they heard a distant buzzer inside the apartment.

There was no sound from the intercom.

They went up three wide wooden steps to the landing and waited at the door.

Nothing happened.

Laura knocked. Waited almost a full minute. Knocked again.

She glanced over at Roger.

“She didn’t leave with Davy,” he said. His voice was higher than he’d intended.

Laura turned the doorknob, pushed inward, and the door opened. She stepped inside, and Roger followed. For some reason he wanted to get in out of the hall now, didn’t want to be seen.