Unknown - The Genius

“Very funny,” I said.

“What’s he talking about?” Samantha/Marilyn asked.

“I don’t know.”

Then Marilyn herself came in, carrying two cups of vending-machine coffee. She saw the nurse checking my blood pressure and said, “What’s going on.”

“He called me your name.”

“Well,” said Marilyn/Marilyn, “that’s better than if he called me your name.”

I fell asleep.

AN HOUR LATER I woke up feeling clearheaded. Both Marilyn and Samantha were still there, engaged in a lively conversation that, thankfully, had nothing to do with me, Marilyn in the middle of one of her Horatio Alger stories about when she was penniless and used to steal fruit from the lobby of the Plaza Hotel. I groaned, and they both turned to look. They came and stood by the bed, one on each side of me.

“Did you have a good nap?” Marilyn asked.

“I feel much more awake now,” I said.

“There’s a reason for that. I was noticing that you looked a little glazed over. Then you started to call everyone Marilyn, so we brought the doctor in and he scaled back your drip a tiny bit. Better?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I have to admit: I found it rather flattering that it was me you saw everywhere.”

I smiled weakly.

“Samantha was telling me about your case,” said Marilyn. “There’s so much more to it than you shared with me, so many lovely little details. Oatmeal?”

I said, “It’s just a theory.”

“Well, I’ll let you two do your sleuthing. I’m going home. I need a shower. Nice to meet you. Take care of him.”

Samantha pulled the chair up to the bedside. “You didn’t say anything about having a girlfriend.”

“Our relationship doesn’t work that way,” I said.

“What way would that be? Honestly?”

“It wouldn’t bother her if she knew,” I said. “I’ll tell her right now, if you’d like. Catch her before she gets in the elevator and bring her back.”

Samantha rolled her eyes.

“What did you two talk about?” I asked.

“Clothes, mostly.”

“She’s got plenty to talk about.”

“So I gathered.”

“That’s it?” I asked. “Clothes.”

“I didn’t tell her, if that’s what you’re getting at.” She shifted around, straightened up. “Are you surprised to see me?”

“A little.”

“You should be. I’m a little surprised to be here myself. When do you get out?”

“Soon, I hope. Maybe tomorrow or Friday.”

“Okay. In the meantime I’m going to finish up collecting DNA from people who were in the apartment. I found the list you made. I also spoke to the lab. We’ll have results on the semen and bloodstains within three weeks. Anything else I’m missing?”

“The other cases.”

“What other cases.”

“Your father wanted to look through old cases to see if any of them fit the profile. Detective Soto was working on it for him.”

“All right. I’ll call him. You rest up and get out of here and we’ll talk then.” She stood up. “You know, you really made me feel like shit about my dad.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “Too late now.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“So am I,” she said.

15

checked out the next day. Marilyn sent a limousine to pick me up, instructing the driver to take me to her town house. Certainly I had no intention of going back to my place. The person who had assaulted me had to be familiar with my comings and goings; either he had followed me from the warehouse or he’d been waiting around the corner from my building. Either way, I thought a few days under the radar would be prudent.

My prudence was nothing compared to Marilyn’s. In the back of the limo was a bodyguard, a mammoth Samoan in a Rocawear tracksuit. He introduced himself as Isaac; his hand swallowed mine; he was at my service until further notice. To me, this was going overboard, but I wasn’t about to start arguing with a man his size.

As one would expect, Marilyn’s house is done in the best taste; it’s also surprisingly livable, albeit tailored to her quirks. She has two kitchens, a full one on the bottom floor and a smaller one near her bedroom, so she can cook herself waffles or eggs or a steak or whatever strikes her fancy at three in the morning. You’ve seen her block before; it has appeared as the backdrop for many a television show, the downtown real-estate equivalent of Murderer’s Row—tall, skinny, picturesque West Village brownstones, each with a patio out back and a throng of camera-happy Midwesterners out front. The Sex and the City bus tour stops two doors down to allow its patrons the opportunity to memorialize the spot where, I’m told, Carrie and Aidan had an argument during season four.

Isaac, used to battling paparazzi, had no trouble getting me through the crowd.

The maid let us in. Marilyn had ordered a room made up on the first floor so that I wouldn’t have to walk up the stairs. On the bed were three new sets of clothing, Barneys tags still attached. She had set out a tray of spice cookies and a little plastic jack-o’-lantern with a note tucked inside. I opened it up. It said Boo.

I went into the bathroom and got my first good look at myself in days. They had changed the dressing on my face several times, each time putting on a slightly lighter one, until all I had were Band-Aids covering my left cheek from dimple to hairline. I peeled one of bandages back and saw a thin patch of scab, like someone had gone after me with a potato peeler. The missing teeth were also on the left side. The shock of seeing them gone started me laughing; I looked like I’d just wandered down out of the Appalachians.

I found a bottle of ibuprofen and shook out four. In my jacket I had a prescription for OxyContin, which I intended to fill and then give away, either to Marilyn or as party favors. I went to grab a bite from the lower kitchen and found Isaac on a folding chair outside my room, blocking the hallway with his girth.

“I really think I’ll be okay,” I said.

“That’s what they want you to think.”

We went to the kitchen. I swallowed my pills. My appetite dwindled as soon as I took a bite of my turkey sandwich, so I offered Isaac the other, bigger half. He accepted gratefully, discarding the bread before eating the meat, lettuce, and tomato.

“No carbs,” he explained. “Right.”

All I wanted to do was sleep. Three days of sleeping will do that to you. I made myself a cup of coffee and called Marilyn at work.

“Did you find everything all right?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“How’s the man I sent you?”

Across the kitchen, Isaac was pouring himself a bowl of cereal. So much for his diet. “Superb.”

“Greta recommended him. He used to work for Whitney Houston. Don’t tell me you don’t need it, I can tell you’re about to say that.”

“I wasn’t, in fact. I was just going to thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Really—I’m so grateful for—”

“Hush,” she said and hung up.

Next I called the gallery. Nat picked up. I asked how the opening had gone.

“Beautifully. Alyson was ecstatic.” Like me, Nat went to Harvard, but he graduated summa cum laude, writing his thesis on ambisexual iconography in Renaissance tapestry. His Boston accent is clipped and wry and fabulous, making him sound sort of like a gay Kennedy.

He told me about the show, concluding, “And the fridge is on order. Oh, and something came in the mail for you from the Queens District Attorney. Do you want me to open it?”

“Please.”

“Hold on.” He put the phone down and came back a moment later. “There’s a little cotton swab thingy and a vial. It’s some sort of—what is this?”