A trap for me, too, I thought. Without the honey. Somewhere deep down I knew the Russian thing would never let me go. I had almost made my peace with the whole fucking enterprise, until last summer, when Tolya’s daughter died and I had to go to Moscow.
For now, because this was about Lily, if I had to, I’d deal with it one more time. I could do that. Suddenly, I knew what the dead woman’s perfume reminded me of. It was a scent my grandmother used to wear: heavy, sweet, too ripe.
“You said she had a storage room. There’s a key?”
“I have it,” said Lily. “She asked me to get some things for her.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Did you?”
“I meant to but I was busy. I didn’t even do that for her, I couldn’t be bothered, and now she’s dead.”
“What things?”
“Russian Christmas decorations. She told me there was a special box she wanted me to have. She was big on presents, little surprises. She was always giving me those damn Russian dolls.”
“I’ll get the box for you if you want.”
“Will you? Thank you.” Lily burst into tears again. “Oh, God, I used her.”
“How?”
“I made her tell me stories, even when she was sick, even when she didn’t have much breath left. Then she died. She was only seventy. Artie?”
“What?”
“I taped her stories. Some of the time I didn’t even tell her I had my voice recorder on. I figured she’d feel freer. Jesus, you become a journalist, a writer, you sell your soul for other people’s stories. It’s like a fucking addiction. The bigger the story, the more horrible the history, the more you crave it.”
“It’s what you do. It’s who you are, and I don’t think you used her. She probably loved it that you were interested,” I said. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“She was OK last night, right? She was alive?”
“Yes.”
“And this morning. What time did you come by this morning?”
Lily hesitated-it was only for a fraction of a second, an intake of breath, a faint sense that she was calculating her answer-and then said, “Just before I called you. Early. Around six.”
“Did she usually leave the door unlocked?”
“No. I have keys.”
“Only you?”
“She was paranoid about keys. I have one. The managing agent for the building has one, but he was always supposed to phone her unless she was away and there was a flood or something.”
“Not the super?”
“She hated the super.”
“She sounds like a demanding woman.”
“So?”
“Everybody in the building knew her?”
“Yes,” said Lily. “Especially on this floor. She’d been here a long time.”
“Is everybody else in this building black?”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m just asking. It’s a black neighborhood; she was white.”
“You think somebody hurt Marianna?”
“I don’t know. Just a gut thing.”
“Because you’re a cop?”
“Because you’re so upset. I’ve never seen you like this.”
“Maybe you weren’t looking,” said Lily. “I just failed Marianna, that’s all. I’ll go look for the doctor’s number if you want,” she added, but she clung to the little chair like a life raft. There was something she wasn’t saying, or couldn’t. “Is it such a big deal, this death certificate, Artie?”
“You just need one. You know that.”
As if forcing herself back into reality, Lily jumped out of the chair. “I’ll get the doctor’s number,” she said. “We should get moving now.”
“What’s the rush?”
“Marianna wanted a Jewish burial.”
“She was wearing a cross.”
“That was just jewelry. I remember I was here once, with Lionel, the doctor next door, and we were drinking vodka, and suddenly Marianna says, ‘OK, I am born Jew, I die Jew.’ ” Lily imitated a Russian accent. “She says, ‘I am not giving fuck about religion, but this Jew way, is fast, also they do not fry you like cremation,’ ” Lily added. “With Jews you’re supposed to bury them fast, right, Artie? Isn’t that right?”
I didn’t ask Lily why she had suddenly seemed to remember that her friend wanted a Jewish burial when I mentioned the death certificate. I didn’t tell her, not yet, that I was planning to call the Medical Examiner, or at least a friend in the ME’s office.
I’d been in the building less than an hour, I’d come as a friend, but the cop in me was already in overdrive. Lily’s behavior made me anxious. Something I couldn’t put my finger on, something in this room, was wrong, out of sync.
If Simonova had wanted a Jewish burial, an autopsy would be a problem.
Jews don’t like their dead in pieces. I don’t care. I’m not religious. Dead is dead. But a pal of mine in Israel who knows this kind of thing once told me the Orthodox don’t like anyone cutting up the dead. It makes it harder to put us back together in the afterlife. I remembered it was the law in Israel, after a bombing, the religious brigades would appear and gather up all the body parts to be buried together.
Lily was standing near the door, holding a pair of glasses. One lens was cracked.
“Hers?”
“Yes.”
“Artie?”
“What?”
“I lied to you,” she began, but before she could finish I realized somebody was knocking on the door.
CHAPTER 6
He’s here. Good,” the guy in the doorway said to Lily. He meant me. “You must be Artie, good to meet you. I’m Virgil Radcliff,” he added in a soft-spoken, easy way as he shook my hand. He was tall, rangy, and loose like an athlete, same kind of haircut as Obama, though he was darker.
Was skin color the first thing you noticed in Harlem? Was it always that way? Or was it me?
The guy was good looking. And young. In his hand was an iPhone, and he kept looking at it. It rang. He turned it off, then put it back on, examined it for messages.
“Sorry, I’ve got a lot going on,” he said.
“Virgil’s a detective,” said Lily. “Like you.”
“What do they call you,” I said, “Mr. Tibbs?”
“What?” He looked puzzled.
“Forget it.” He had no idea it was a crappy joke. I was hoping Lily, who seemed preoccupied, hadn’t noticed.
“I saw you lecture once at John Jay, Artie, when I did my masters there. You were talking about radioactive material, that case of yours, the little suitcase nukes. It was really interesting,” said Radcliff. “Are you OK, Lily? I’m sorry I took so long getting back.”
“Artie wants me to call Marianna’s doctor. I was just going to get the number. I have it at my place.” She started out to the hall. I followed her. I closed the door behind me, leaving Radcliff in Simonova’s apartment.
“Who’s he?”
“He’s a friend.”
“I got that.”
“He’s a detective, I told you. He knows about Marianna.” She looked nervously down the hallway, the strip of dark red carpet over the tiled floors, the walls papered in silver stripes. Somewhere a dog yapped. From outside came the siren of an ambulance.
“So what did you need me for? You don’t trust him?”
“Of course, I trust him. It’s just different.”
“He was with you when you found her?”
“Sort of.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Virgil was in the building. I found her first, then I got him to come in to look at her.”
“He was in this building at six this morning? Where exactly?”