Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [49]
“How are you, my friend? I no see you in long time!” he said, stopping his cart next to Lee and clapping a friendly hand on his shoulder. His hands were thick and brown, the skin mottled and cracked from the wind and sun. “Is good to see you!”
“Yes, it’s good to see you, too,” Lee replied, and in truth, it was. One of the sweet things about life in New York was the relationships you had with people like this man. The young Guatemalan immigrant who makes your breakfast sandwich so quickly and efficiently, the Cuban deli owner who knows just how you like your coffee in the morning, the Korean salad bar lady with the good sushi at the Essex Market, the Indian grocer who sells you your daily bagel or newspaper. You rarely know their names, and you may not know much about them, but the moment you share with them every day is a thread in the fabric of city life. Lee valued these relationships: they were not complex and layered and ambiguous like intimate relationships, but that was part of their charm. New York was so full of people who came from other places, and those moments where they briefly touched, exchanging a sandwich and a greeting, were something Lee clung to and valued greatly.
He turned to face his friend. “How have you been? How’s business?”
The man wagged his head back and forth. “Now is so-so, you know—not so good. When September come, is much better. Everyone back to class, everyone hungry!” He winked and let out a robust belly laugh. Lee was always impressed with the man’s good spirits. After a hard day of standing outside in all kinds of weather, he still had good humor and a belly laugh. Lee didn’t think he’d be up to a job like that—and this man probably had fifteen years on him.
“So, my friend, is good to see you—I see you again?” the man said, beginning to wheel his cart away.
“Yes,” Lee replied. “You will definitely see me again.”
He watched as the vendor pushed his cart uphill along the sidewalk, stooped over with the effort, favoring his right leg, his shoulders rounded from years of physical labor. Watching him, Lee’s self-pity and indecision evaporated like steam from a hot dog bun. When the light changed, he strode out into the dusky street and toward John Jay College of Criminal Justice.
Little had changed since he was last there some five months ago. The building was quiet, in the break period between the end of summer classes and the beginning of the fall term. At the front security desk, the pretty black girl with the colorfully beaded hair was absorbed in her textbook and barely glanced at him as he flashed his ID card. She pressed the release button, and he went through the metal turnstile as he had a hundred times before. Lee wanted to get used to being in the building again, to acclimatize himself, as it were, before tackling a lecture hall full of students.
He started up the stairs to the third floor, where most of the faculty offices were, and pushed open the door to the familiar corridor. The hall was empty, which wasn’t surprising—most of the professors and staff would be enjoying the last week of summer vacation. He walked slowly down the hall, his footsteps ringing hollow through the deserted corridor.
As he turned the corner, he heard the dreaded voice in his head, in all its reptilian coldness.
I know about the red dress.
His knees weakened and he began to sweat.
“Get a grip, Campbell,” he muttered, and walked onward. But each step seemed to pound out the same three syllables, over and over. The red dress … the red dress … the red dress. His vision seemed to narrow, and the walls felt as though they were slowly beginning to press inward, closing in on him. He knew the warning signs of a panic attack, but fought the sensation by swinging his arms vigorously, concentrating on taking deep breaths.
He passed the familiar place where there was a water stain on the ceiling in the shape of Florida, and the janitor’s closet two doors away. He headed for the big lecture hall at the end of the corridor, which was where he would probably