Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [48]
He smiled at Celia, who did not notice, and followed the body out. He felt sorry for her. The ambulance officers paused in the hallway to tighten the belt over the dead man before descending the stairs. Jack waited and then followed. He went carefully down behind the trolley, step by step, until they reached the dim, damp lobby below. Jack was still not thinking too much. That was good.
He watched the ambulance officers pass through the front doors of the apartment building. He felt an icy rush of wind from outside and then listened to it moan as the doors closed and squeezed it out. He wound on his scarf and buttoned up his jacket and then stepped out into the dark. The ambulance officers loaded the body into an ambulance and slammed the doors. Jack watched them drive off. Nobody else about: for a moment, the world was as cold and empty as an alcoholic’s refrigerator. Jack’s stomach sounded a thin, hollow gurgle. He wondered if it was appropriate to think about food at such a time.
The frangipani tree near the entrance stood above him like some surreal candelabra wrought from shadows, faint against the city’s glow, its ragged candles snuffed and long cold. He stared at it and shivered and then started walking away. Christ. That was all he needed after a heavy day: a movie-size serve of gloomy symbolism.
15
ANOTHER DAY. Jack was tense, stiff in the neck and aching, like he had been wearing a long wet coat all week, with anchors in the pockets. Last night he had dreamt that all his teeth fell out, that he had spat them into the palm of his hand, an endless mouthful. When he woke he had run his tongue over them a couple of times, to make sure they were still in his head. Now he sipped his coffee. He smoked a cigarette. He was sitting in the Eames chair with the heater pulled up close and his feet resting on top of it, trying to concentrate. Lois was curled up on a cushion on the floor. He was going over connections. Unchecked, he knew this type of mental activity often led to lunacy. But right now, it was all he had to work with. He was nervous about the connection between himself and the killer. But more than that, it was the question of who else was connected to the dead shoplifter — and why — that was making a vein in his temple pulse.
Two men dead because of half-a-dozen morbid poetry books? Not to mention the stitches in his gut.
A knock at the door. Jack groaned and got up out of the chair like a man whose woman had run off with his best friend. Maybe it was the cops. Maybe it was Detective Peterson, round for some early morning fun, having heard about the murder yesterday afternoon from his colleague. But when Jack opened the door and saw Annabelle Kasprowicz standing there, his low mood fizzed and dissolved like an aspirin.
‘It would have been easier if I’d walked,’ she said. Her face was bright with cold. ‘I ended up parking closer to my place.’
‘Maybe it’d be easier if you just moved in.’
Annabelle rolled her eyes and stepped into Jack’s apartment for the first time. He closed the door behind her while she looked around. Nothing seemed to hold her attention for too long.
‘It’s warm,’ she said.
‘Make yourself at home.’
She was wearing a knee-length, jersey wrap dress with a 1970s paisley print in brown and turquoise. It did not look like it would be too difficult to remove at the end of a hard day. Her legs were held secure in tight, knee-high navy leather boots that would probably require a little more effort. The long, turquoise fine-wool scarf around her neck would pose no problem at all. A little jewellery, a little make-up, a puff of perfume. She sent every sense nuts, including the sixth.
Lois stood up, stretched and then miaowed. She sauntered over to Annabelle