Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [49]
Feeling like an undercover cop—hoping a real undercover cop wouldn’t notice him—Roger dug his cell phone out of his pocket and called Laura.
“He’s in the Village visiting a tall blond girl—woman,” he said, then explained in detail his location and Davy’s, and how they’d gotten there. “I just caught a glimpse of her, but she looked very pretty. Maybe in her twenties.”
“You sound jealous.”
That seemed an odd thing for Laura to say. Was it in my voice?“So what’s our move now?” he asked. Laura seemed to have taken charge of the operation. “Should I bust in and yell for them to freeze?”
“You shouldn’t make light of it,” she said.
“Maybe we both should. All we’ve found out is Davy’s visiting a girlfriend—if he’s lucky.”
“Remember the blood on his shirts.”
“If it was blood.”
“I’ll come down there,” Laura said. “I’m going to join you.”
“What if Davy leaves before you get here?”
“If he does, let him leave. Don’t let him see you.”
“Then?”
“We’ll go into that apartment building and ring a doorbell.”
Roger didn’t notice Laura at first. She must have walked close to the buildings, on his side of the street. He saw that she was wearing a dark jacket, jeans, and her jogging shoes.
“Is he still in there?” she asked.
“No. He left about ten minutes ago.”
“How did he look?” Laura’s eyes shone like a cat’s in the dim reflected light of the streetlamp at the corner.
“He looked like he always looks. He seemed … calm.” Laura was standing motionless, in a strangely awkward yet poised position. “I doubt if anything happened in there,” Roger added, wondering himself how he could possibly hazard that guess.
“Let’s find out.” Laura started across the street.
Roger gripped her shoulder, stopping her. “And tell the woman what?”
“That we’re Davy’s parents.”
“For God’s sake, Laura!”
“We’ll tell her we’re taking a survey,” Laura said. “Or that we’re collecting food for charity.” She walked out from beneath his hand and he fell in behind her as they crossed the street and entered the building.
The pale green vestibule was more brightly lit than it appeared from outside—which was reassuring—and smelled as if it had been recently painted. Even so, there was fresh graffiti on the wall above the mailboxes in crude black lettering: God is watching over somebody else.
“It has to be that one,” Roger said, pointing up the stairs to the landing. He could see a brass letter and numeral, 1W, on the door to the girl’s apartment.
Laura pressed the brass button and they heard a distant buzzer inside the apartment.
There was no sound from the intercom.
They went up three wide wooden steps to the landing and waited at the door.
Nothing happened.
Laura knocked. Waited almost a full minute. Knocked again.
She glanced over at Roger.
“She didn’t leave with Davy,” he said. His voice was higher than he’d intended.
Laura turned the doorknob, pushed inward, and the door opened. She stepped inside, and Roger followed. For some reason he wanted to get in out of the hall now, didn’t want to be seen.
There were two dead bolt locks and an unfastened brass chain on the door. The woman certainly hadn’t locked herself in after Davy left.
They moved deeper inside the apartment, which was warm and comfortably furnished. The furniture was eclectic flea market but tasteful. There were art prints on the walls. A bookshelf was stuffed with paperbacks, most of them fiction.
They smelled the blood before they saw it. Roger felt as if his molars had turned to copper along the sides of his tongue, bringing saliva. He knew the stench was fresh blood even though he’d never before smelled it. Ancient knowledge.
The blond woman was sprawled in a wide circle of blood on the kitchen floor. Her long hair was fanned out and matted with blood. Her throat had been sliced almost deeply enough to have severed her head. Her breasts—
Roger had to turn away. He heard himself make a sobbing sound.
“We’re leaving,” Laura said. Her voice was so calm