Russell Andrews - Icarus

With that, Herb released Jack's arm, watched as he got out of the car, and then nodded wearily to the driver.

In the elevator ride up to his apartment, Jack tried to piece things together. But the pieces all seemed so scattered, so disconnected. He arrived at Leslee's apartment, rang her buzzer. No answer. Someone was in there with her, though, had to be. But doing what? Putting the needle in her arm? Waiting for her to die? And then what? Jack had buzzed a second time, and this one was answered. A short buzz back, letting him into the building. A minute to climb the stairs? Two minutes? And now there was no one in the apartment. No one except the dead girl in the bathtub.

He tried to imagine what could have happened. Someone buzzes him in, leaves the apartment…

Jack realized he was picturing this someone as a woman. Someone Leslee would trust. One of Kid's team.

She had buzzed Leslee from downstairs. Identified herself as a friend of Kid's. Or maybe didn't even have to. Maybe Leslee was already in the tub, assumed that Jack had arrived early, hopped out to quickly press the buzzer, then dashed back to the bath. That made sense. He could picture that.

She got to the top of the stairs, saw the note – and the knife – that Leslee had left by the door. Went inside. Maybe she sat on the edge of the tub and talked to the girl, lulled her into a sense of ease. Was Leslee already shooting drugs? Maybe. Maybe this woman knew it. Maybe she knew it wouldn't be hard to get her going. All she had to do was up the dosage. Or maybe it was a struggle. Or maybe Leslee closed her eyes, relaxed in the warm water, and then here it came, a sudden jab, the syringe stuck in her arm, a quick thrashing and then…

Then what?

Then Jack buzzed. Leslee was already dead or certainly near death. The woman turned the water back on, a good distraction for when Jack arrived. She buzzed him in, stepping over Leslee's note – maybe dripping water on it, maybe that's how it got wet – and then she went up a flight of stairs, perhaps only half a flight. She might have watched him enter. When he closed the door, she went straight downstairs, out the front door to the street. She was gone. Safe.

Stopping first to jimmy the lock on the door? To break it after the fact?

Why? What purpose did that serve?

For one, it made him look like a liar. Or, worse, it made it seem as if he were the one who broke into the building.

It could make him look like the killer.

The elevator stopped now on Jack's floor. The door slid open and he stepped into his living room. His imagination was running away with him, he decided. Why would anyone want him to look like a murderer? For that matter, how would anyone even know he was involved?

Well, one person already knew. The Mortician. Eva Migliarini knew he was gathering information. She knew he was trying to find the other members of the Team. He could picture her talking to Leslee. She could easily have access to drugs. And he could see her pulling out the needle, sticking it into the naked girl, the girl who was compulsively cleansing off the world's stench in her bathwater.

Jack shook his head as if to clear away his overly dramatic ruminations. He went into the kitchen, took out a highball glass, then turned and went into the living room, straight for the bar, poured himself half a glassful of twelve-year-old single-malt scotch.

Forget all this, he told himself. You just had a shock. You saw a dead body. And not just a body, someone you knew, someone you'd heard so much about. It's natural to start imagining things. Christ! No wonder McCoy was looking at you like that. You must have sounded like an idiot. A paranoid idiot. So just forget it, drink your scotch and watch SportsCenter and forget about outsmarting the New York City Police Department.

Jack flicked on the TV, sat in his regular chair, got comfortable as he heard Dan Patrick say, "A slider to McGwire… and a whiffffff." As Jack sipped his drink, he glanced to his left, toward the Hopper painting, prepared to smile, as he always did when he saw it. Only this time he didn't smile. Because he didn't see it. The painting was gone.

Jack jumped up, the scotch swishing over the top of the glass and spilling onto his shirt. He took two steps over toward the bare wall, stopped suddenly, because he saw now that it was not gone. It had been taken off its hook on the wall. Someone had removed it, leaned it carefully against the baseboard. Jack ran to it, saw that it was unmarked and unharmed.

Someone had been in his apartment. But how? It was impossible to break into this building.

And even if someone could break in, why?

Why would anyone…

And then he knew.

His eyes went to the space on the wall where the painting had hung. In its place, in very small letters, two words had been carefully written. It looked like crayon, Jack thought. No. As he peered closer, more like red Magic Marker.

Jack ran back into the kitchen. Checked the walls and the cabinets. Everything was undisturbed. Then into his office. Normal. Next, he ran into his bedroom and what he saw there stopped him cold. There were three words, also in red Magic Marker, scrawled on the wall above his bed. The writing was neat, the lettering precise.

Jack realized he was breathing hard. And he was trembling. He went back to the living room, where the words were now all he could see. They dominated the room.

Stop looking is what they said.

He didn't have to go back into the bedroom to check the words there. The message was similar. The first two words were the same. But there was a third word added. And it was the third word that made Jack shiver and wonder what the hell he'd gotten himself into. And how he'd possibly get out of it.

He closed his eyes and could perfectly picture the message above his bed. In thick, precise, bloodred letters.

Stop looking now.

– "-"-"THE FIRST THING Jack did was call down to the doorman on duty.

"Carlos," he said into the phone that connected directly to the front door of the building, "did anyone come up to my apartment tonight?"

"No. Who?"

"I don't know. Anyone."

"No, sir."

"Can someone get into the apartment?"

"Not unless Frankie or I let 'em up."

"Tell me how you do that."

"What do you mean?"

"I know it sounds crazy, but tell me exactly how someone gets into my apartment."

"Are you kiddin'? You know how."

"Just humor me. How does someone get up here?"

"They come into the building, give their name, we call up for your okay, and whoever's at the door releases the elevator for your floor."

"There's a device at the door."

"Yeah, sure. Right under the stand, you know, when you come in."

"What if I'm not home?"

"If you're not here, we don't let anybody up. Unless you give us a written note with a name on it. Otherwise, ain't no way."

"Is someone always at the door? Could anyone get by you and release the elevator on his own?"

"Did someone get into your apartment, Mr. Keller? You want me to call-"

"No. Do me a favor and just answer the question."

"There's always two of us. Three or four shifts, always two at a time. Pretty hard to get by. I'd say impossible. And they'd have to know exactly how to release-"

"How about if you don't release it? Can someone get by you and just use the elevator?"

"No, sir. Well, they could, but they'd have to have a key."

"Like the one I use to come in through the garage?"

"Yes, sir. Same, exact key. You just insert it in the lock next to the button for your floor."

"And it only works for my floor?"

"Your key works for your floor, Mr. Babbitch's key works for the fifth floor, every tenant's got a key that works for them and them only."

"So my key won't work for Mr. Babbitch's floor?"