Strangled - Brian McGrory [129]
A moment later he said into the phone, “Woody, baby, Vinny Mong here. You never call, you never write.”
Silence.
“You kidding me?” he said. “It works like a dream. I’ve lost two pounds already. I’ve got to hook you up with this guru I have. You’ll love her.”
Silence.
“Listen, I’ve got an odd question.”
Silence.
“Yeah, I’m an insomniac. At least you’re making money for not sleeping. Anyway, like I said, odd question. When you were courageously and heroically the first one to arrive at that murder scene Tuesday, how’d you know what apartment that dead girl was in?”
Silence.
“You’re sure?”
Silence.
“Hundred percent?”
Silence.
“Thanks, Woody. Cut down on the fruits. That’s the whole key. I know you have this thing for applesauce. No more applesauce, okay? We’ll get together and play a little handball.”
He hung up and said to me, “Woody says the order came down from Mac Foley with the street address and apartment number. He’s sure.”
I shook my head, got up, and rapped on the Plexiglas, at once incredulous at what I was thinking, exhilarated that I was finally seeing little cracks of light, and nervous over what was to come.
Ralphie appeared again and I said, “I’m ready to go, sir.”
Mongillo called out, “What the fuck? What about me?”
Good question. “When they’re ready to let you out, call.”
I got outside, climbed into the awaiting cab next to a snoring dog, and promptly fell asleep before I ever got home. The day that wouldn’t end was finally over.
Well, almost.
35
I staggered through the door to my condominium at three-thirty in the company of a guard dog newly named Huck — a combination of Hank and Buck, the two bodyguards who were no longer at my side.
The two of us stumbled into the kitchen and both had a long drink of water — Huck from one of Baker’s old bowls that I could never bring myself to throw away, me from a bottle of Poland Spring that represented the only food in my refrigerator. My excuse could be that I had been planning on being on my honeymoon for two weeks, but in truth I never had anything in my refrigerator. Maybe that’s one reason I had wanted to get married. A full refrigerator makes for a full life — or something like that.
“You ready for bed, old boy?”
That was me talking to Huck, the sound of my voice sounding odd in the silence of my house. He looked up at me and wagged his tail. The two of us could get used to each other’s company pretty fast, I suspected.
I shut out the kitchen light and wandered through the dark expanse of the living room, Huck swishing behind me. Halfway through, I heard a low growl and said, “Come on, pal, you can find me.” The growling continued on the other side of the room where he had stopped.
So I flicked on a lamp. I was at the door of my bedroom, which was closed. Huck was sitting perfectly rigid next to the couch, his eyes open wide, his head slightly cocked, his stare shifting from me to the bedroom and back to me, growling in between.
“You want to sleep out here?” I asked. “You can sleep anywhere you want. Me, I’m going to bed.”
He continued to growl — a low gurgle, really. I walked over to him and crouched down, putting my face toward his. He kept looking around the apartment, looking into the open doors that led to the dark spaces of the other bedroom, the entry hall, the bathroom. I rubbed his head, only to feel how rigid his entire body had become. He looked at me mournfully, and I said, “Do you sense my dog? Is that what it is? Can you smell Baker?”
Huck kept looking around, tense. I said, “Look, I’ve got to get some sleep. You can stand sentry all night, if you’d like, but that’s your choice.”
He didn’t budge.
I clicked off the living room light, sending the apartment into total darkness again. That’s when I heard the noise.
It began softly, like a distant movement, maybe a rustle, cloth against cloth. It came from behind my bedroom door, leading me to assume I had left a window open and the drapes were blowing