S Rozan - Trail of Blood

In the morning I found my mother sewing on a blouse she was making for Ling-an.

“How did you sleep?” she asked as I put water on.

“Strange dreams. I think it’s the jet lag. What’s going on in Cloud Lake Mansion?”

“On television?” She seemed dumbfounded by the question.

“Is that girl marrying the rich guy her father wants her to? And what about that soldier, did he come back?”

“I didn’t know you followed that show.”

“Ma, it moves so slowly I only need to walk by once a month when you’re watching to catch up. Did the politician’s wife have the baby yet?”

She blinked. “No, but she’s in the hospital, she’s having problems. And that pretty girl is a fool. She’ll marry that old man to make her father happy, instead of waiting for her soldier.”

“She probably will, but I’m surprised you don’t approve. Isn’t she being properly filial, doing that?”

“Of course. But if her father were a proper father he would care more about her happiness than making a good business alliance.”

“I guess he would. Do you want tea?”

“Yes,” my mother said, and added, “Thank you, Ling Wan-ju.”

I hit Canal Street, heading for Bright Hopes to see if Mr. Chen was ready to talk to me, but before I got close, my cell phone rang. When I answered, that bellowing tenor blasted my ear:

“Sondheim, Pacific Overtures. Chinsky! Come up here right away.”

“Now? But I was-”

“Whatever you’re doing, drop it. Something’s fishy, and I want to talk about it.”

“What is?”

“Come up here.”

“Just tell me-”

“Chinsky! Now!”

Then a click. I stood for a moment, fuming. Who the hell was Joel Pilarsky to give me an order and then hang up? I almost called him back just to say that. Yes, well, chill, Lydia. Just go up there.

We certainly did have to talk.

I got in gear and trotted to the N train, reaching the platform in time to see red taillights. Served me right for arguing with myself. Well, so Joel would have to wait. Served him right for pushing me around. When the train finally came, the ride was shorter than the wait had been.

Joel’s office was in midtown, in a 1930s building with complicated corridors and cranky steel windows. Its elevators grumbled and its terrazzo floors sagged. Joel claimed he didn’t move because the place was such a dump the landlord paid the tenants, but I knew the truth. From the day we met, I’d seen Joel’s impatient know-it-allness for what it was: a smoke screen for his secret identity as a hopeless romantic. Like most romantics, he was disappointed in little and big ways dozens of times a day, and like most, he kept trying. These rabbit-warren hallways, these glass-paneled doors with names in gold, creaking onto small rooms with vast Manhattan views-what could be a more romantic place for a private eye? Joel Pilarsky, I thought, you don’t fool me.

I got a nod from the lobby guard. My last case with Joel-the runaway wife and the noodle king-had been only a year ago, so maybe he recognized me. More likely he just hoped he did so he wouldn’t have to tear himself from the Enquirer’s coverage of a spaceship landing in Pittsburgh.

The elevator muttered all the way up as though I’d interrupted its lunch break. On Joel’s floor I walked the maze, left-right-right-left. I knocked and pushed his door open. There was an outer office, as though Joel had a secretary, but he didn’t, just a part-time bookkeeper to send out the bills. I walked through to the inner office, saying, “Pilarsky, this place is a mess. If you’re going to make me drop everything and run over here, the least you could do-”

I stopped. Joel was sitting in his office chair, but though his eyes were open he wasn’t looking at me.

Or at anything, anymore.

I tried. I ignored the oceans of blood soaking his shirt and felt his neck for a pulse, though I knew he wouldn’t have one. But it was the by-the-book thing, and Joel would have been disappointed in me if I hadn’t done it. I looked around, taking in the open drawers and file cabinets, but I didn’t touch anything. I used my cell phone to call the police and then I waited in the corridor, so no one else would make the mistake I had, of touching the doorknob, maybe screwing up the killer’s prints. And I left Joel’s eyes open, and his yarmulke on the floor where it had fallen, though I wasn’t sure that was okay, at all.

“Here, drink this.”

Mary held a takeout cup with a dangling Lipton’s label. I sipped, hoping tea would clear my fog. I felt as though I were seeing through the wrong end of a telescope and hearing through a closed door. And standing in sludge.

“Sit down,” Mary ordered.

“The forensics people-”

“Then in the hall.” She led me to the corridor and pointed at the floor.

Why hadn’t I thought of that? I sank down and leaned against the wall, closing my eyes.

“They’ll be through with you soon.” Mary’s voice came from beside me. “Then you can go.”

“I missed the train.”

“What?”

“Joel told me to get up here, and I was so mad at him for ordering me around that I didn’t hurry. If I’d caught the train that was pulling out, I’d have been here in time.”

“To get killed, too?”

I opened my eyes. “To stop the killer!”

“Maybe not.”

“I was talking to Joel on the phone!”

“And maybe the killer was right outside, waiting for him to hang up.”

“Still-”

“No ‘still.’ It’s not your fault. The point is now to catch the person who did this.”

I stared at this best friend, this cop. When, I wondered, had Mary stopped understanding me?

A small, sharp-featured man stepped out of Joel’s office. His gold shield was clipped to his pocket, and I knew someone had told me his name, but I had no idea what it was. He stopped when he caught sight of the badge hanging around Mary’s neck. “Who’re you?”

“Mary Kee. Fifth Precinct.”

“What’re you doing here?”

Mary pointed. “She’s a friend of mine.”

The uptown cop frowned. “Your name’s familiar. Do I know you?”

“We spoke on the phone. Your Asian John Doe from the hotel.”

“Right! You’re supposed to be ID-ing him.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Here? Now, I need the witness.”

“I’d like to stay.”

“I’d like you not to.”

“She’s a friend of mine. She’s upset.”

“And you’re off your turf. I’ll be nice.” He showed me a bunch of teeth, which was probably a smile.

Mary looked to me. I shrugged. She said, “When you’re ready to go, I’ll take you home,” and walked away down the hall.

The detective watched her, then turned back to me, notebook in hand. “You worked for Pilarsky?”

A preface would have been nice, I thought. Your name, how sorry you are. “Not exactly.” My voice sounded dull. Well, maybe I’d bore him, and he’d go away. “We’re both freelance. He called me in on a case. Before that I hadn’t seen him in a while.”

The detective had stopped writing, as if to let me finish babbling. “So, on this case, you worked for him.”

“I guess.”

“What’s the case?”

“Stolen jewelry.” I gave him a summary, finding it hard to stay focused. I kept seeing Joel standing outside the Waldorf, bursting into off-key song.

“Any way that could be related to this?” On “this” he nodded toward the office. I could read the skepticism in his lifted brows.