Michael Baden - Remains Silent

“Mmmmm.”

“I’ll come just as soon as I can.”

When he entered his office, Jake was stopped by a lawyer in a pin-striped suit, who identified himself as Anthony Travaglini of the Corporation Counsel’s office- the city’s attorneys. “I’m here to serve you this,” he said, handing Jake some paper-clipped documents.

Jake looked at the heading: ELIZABETH MARKIS, ADMINISTRATOR OF THE ESTATE OF PETER JOSEPH HARRIGAN, v. DR. JACOB ROSEN AND THE CITY OF NEW YORK.

“It demands that you return Dr. Harrigan’s possessions to her,” Travaglini explained. “She’s only seeking the items you took from his house, nothing more.”

What’s she doing? First she won’t let me tell her the truth about her father, and now she won’t let me have the things from his house- things she wanted me to have and begged me to pick up. What’s happening? Do they know Pete had the bones? Fear went up his spine like fire up a fuse. “What if I say no?” he asked.

“The city won’t back you. She’s within her rights. She’s donated them to the Queens campus of the Catskill Medical School for a library that’s going to be named after him. And she’s powerful- remember, she’s not just Harrigan’s daughter, she is a U.S. Attorney.”

“Bullshit!” The word was out before his better sense could censor it.

“That’s as it may be. Whatever she wants them for, they’re hers. Matter of fact, the sheriff’s officers are waiting outside your house. Your brother’s there, but he won’t let them in till you give the okay. Call him, please. You have no choice.”

Jake went to his desk and dialed his home number. “Let the sheriff’s men in,” he told his brother. “Give them Harrigan’s boxes on the top floor.”

Sam’ll understand. I didn’t say anything about the box in the basement safe.

JAKE CALLED MANNY on her cell just as she was heading uptown and told her about his encounter with Travaglini. “No need to meet Sam,” he said. “He’s gone to a class on Tantric sex.”

She was relieved. Lack of attention to her day job was preying on her. This would give her a chance to see Mr. Williams about his whiplash suit against the Fire Department, file the final papers on the Cabrera deportation case, and catch up on her bookkeeping. The reward would be a late dinner with Jake.

Her office was in one of those buildings near Wall Street that accommodate small businesses of every kind. Next door to her a dentist plied his painful trade (Manny loathed drills); around the corner was a CPA whose clients seemed to be mostly union organizers; at the far end of the hall was a publicist who handled a rock-and-roll girls’ band given to skimpy costumes even when they were not onstage. On the frosted glass panel of her door was stenciled in elegant gold letters:

Attorney-at-Law Her office space consisted of a small room for Kenneth, a larger room for herself, and a window with a view of other windows; when she looked outside she had a hard time telling if it was day or night.

It was, she realized now, night. After her meeting with Williams, she had worked for she knew not how many hours, barely conscious that Kenneth had bid her good night and that, though the lights were on in the building across the street, no people remained to make use of them. She looked at her watch. Jesus! She dialed Jake’s cell.

“I’m still at the office.”

He sighed. “I am, too. You got me just before I was going to call you. Do you mind if we cancel tonight? I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”

Not see him? Well- good. She was too tired for banter or for the avalanche of emotions she felt whenever she was with him. Better to grab a salad, get home in time to walk Mycroft, and catch the late-night repeats of the news shows to watch the spectacle of the legal trial du jour.

She stood and stretched, fatigue searing every muscle in her back, and for the first time became aware of the silence. I must be the last person in the building.

Last week the thought wouldn’t have bothered her, but after Turner Psychiatric it produced a tremor in her stomach, and she hurriedly gathered up her purse and coat.

Someone’s in the corridor! She could see his silhouette against the frosted glass of her door. He was standing still- no, bending down now. To look through the glass? She imagined his breath on her neck, felt it again viscerally, as though she were still in the Solitude Room. Had he followed her? Did he know she’d met with Jake and Sam after his warning? Is he going to kill me now?

Listen! A noise was coming from outside her door. What is it? A motor. A machine? An electric saw! Manny stifled a sob and stood paralyzed, her pounding heart so loud she could hear it above the whir of the motor. The shadow moved again, away from her door and out of her vision.

Idiot! It’s not a saw; no one’s come to cut you to pieces. There’s no man outside. It’s a woman, the cleaning woman. And she’s using a floor polisher, like she does every night at this hour. My office is at the corner; it’s where she’d start. She bent down to turn it on.

Tears of gratitude sprang to her eyes. “Oh,” she said aloud, and again, “Oh.” She put on her coat, wound the straps of her purse firmly over her arm, and- not without a residual shiver of trepidation- opened the door.

Yes, there she was, the cleaning lady, polishing away in front of the office of Terrance Prescott, DDS.

“Good evening,” Manny said, proud of the firmness in her voice.

The woman turned. She was wearing a kerchief that covered her hair and face, a baggy floral dress, and-strange-Tod’s lizard boots. Expensive.

What kind of cleaning lady…? “Good evening,” the woman answered. She left the polisher where it was and walked toward Manny, holding something out as though it were an offering.

A knife!

The light was bright in the corridor; it ricocheted off the steel like sparks from a fire.

Manny whirled, ran, slipped on the polished floor. The woman stood above her, knife poised, hand drawn back behind her head. Manny screamed, screamed, screamed again, the sound reverberating through the corridor, until the woman plunged the knife and Manny could scream no longer.

She awoke to bright light and a searing pain in her right thigh. She was in a bed- no doubt about that- but it wasn’t her bed at home. Rather, it had the smell and feel of a bed in a-hospital?

She opened her eyes. A hospital indeed. “Where am I?” she asked nevertheless, having all her life wanted to say it.

“Saint Vincent’s,” a voice answered from the foot of the bed.

She raised her head. Dr. Jacob Rosen, in full hospital regalia, was smiling at her. Must be a nightmare.

Memories flooded her. Her office, the silhouette, the woman in lizard boots, and the knife-Oh, God, the knife! She tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness pushed her back down. Her mouth felt funny, as though she had been chewing on tweed.

“Lie still,” Jake said. He moved to her side and took her hand. Maybe it’s a dream after all. “A cleaning woman found you and called nine-one-one.”

“A cleaning woman? She was the one who- black or white?”

“Black.” A different woman. “You were on the floor outside your office. You’d been stabbed. There’s a gash on your thigh, four-five inches long.”

“How’d you know I was here?”

“You had your PDA in your blazer pocket. The EMS called the emergency numbers you’ve listed and finally got Kenneth Boyd. He called me.” Jake shook his head in wonder. “It was quite a conversation.”

“Where is he? And has he taken care of Mycroft?”

“He’s taking Mycroft to your mother’s for the night. Said he can’t stand hospitals or the sight of blood. He’ll only see you if you’re well or if you’re dead.”