Detective Tuckney made an empathetic sound in his throat. “They take samples, but that’s all. The room will be pretty much like when you left it. There is a lot of blood in the hall. There’s also some spatter on the walls.”
Lorraine gripped the phone. Sesame Street switched to Big Bird talking to a group of kids on the steps in front of a blue house. A sudden thought hit. If Lorraine had any chance of finding someone to watch Tammy while she cleaned, it was now, at the end of the preschool day.
Besides, how could she be in that apartment tomorrow, after the morning newspaper hit the streets?
“You don’t have to clean it up yourself, if that’s what you’re thinking, Mrs. Giordano. There are specialized companies you can hire to do that kind of work.”
“How much do they cost?”
“Unfortunately a lot. A hundred or more dollars per hour.”
Lorraine gave a little snort. “Oh, good. I can afford that.”
“You don’t have to pay for it; that’s the responsibility of the property owner.”
Would Mr. Houger do that? And would he pay for her to stay another night or two at the motel in the meantime? She couldn’t even afford that much. Lorraine would bet against the motel bill for sure. She’d only met Mr. Houger once — when he’d hired her. He was a busy man, with a hardness in his lined face. The owner of many commercial properties, he’d let her know, as if that made him superior. She hadn’t liked him, but she and Martin needed a place to live. They’d seen it as a part of building their dream. Live in that grungy apartment free for a while, and they’d have more to save toward a house.
“Look.” Detective Tuckney sounded apologetic. “Cleaning up after something like this happens isn’t so simple. If you see one spot of blood on a carpet, that could mean a foot-wide circle of it underneath on the floorboard. Also, blood and body tissue are considered biohazards and potentially infectious. When special cleaning teams come in, they know how to properly dispose of all the materials they used to clean. For that reason alone, most importantly for your own emotional welfare, this isn’t a job you should even think about undertaking yourself.”
Blood and body tissue. Lorraine couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “Okay. I’ll call Mr. Houger.” She rubbed her forehead. “Do you know any more about . . . anything?”
“We’re working on all the evidence we have. And we’ll keep working. The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow.”
What was she supposed to do tonight? How was she supposed to sleep tonight?
“I met with a funeral home,” her mouth said. “You wanted that information so they’d know where to take Martin?” Her mind flashed a picture of his bloodied face. Could they clean him up for an open casket? He had two holes in his head.
“Yeah, I’ll take that information right now if you like.”
Lorraine pushed off the bed and reached into her purse for the card from the funeral home. She read the address and phone to the detective. “I’ll probably go back home just long enough to pick up some things. If I can find someone to watch Tammy.”
And then what, Lorraine? What about tomorrow, and the next day, and the next? Where would she and Tammy live? How could they feel safe anywhere in Atlantic City?
She should whisk her daughter away. Move anywhere — to a town in another state. Start a new life.
But she had no money to do that.
“All right,” the detective replied. “You’ve got my number if you need it. And I’ll be checking in with you as needed.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Lorraine hung up the phone and put her head in her hands.
Minutes later she called the preschool. She kept her back to Tammy, speaking in low tones. The director had heard the news of Martin’s murder and told Lorraine again and again how sorry she was. And how was Tammy? Lorraine’s automatic responses slipped out as if some other person spoke them. How odd her mind felt, as though fog wrapped itself around every thought. She needed to think clearly. But clarity seemed so far away.
One of the preschool teachers, a young woman about eighteen, said she could watch Tammy for the evening at her parents’ home. Lorraine could bring Tammy in half an hour. “And don’t worry about dinner — I’ll feed her,” Michelle said.
Lorraine’s shoulders sagged in relief. That would make Tammy happy. Michelle was one of her favorite teachers. “Thanks so much.”
Tammy giggled at the TV. Lorraine glanced over her shoulder to see Oscar the Grouch popping into his trashcan. She turned back, putting a hand over her mouth to further muffle her voice. “And Michelle? She doesn’t know yet. I just . . . haven’t figured out how to tell her.”
“Okay.” Michelle’s voice weighted with sadness. “I understand.”
Lorraine put off the call to Mr. Houger. She’d do that from the apartment, when Tammy wasn’t around.
Tammy was ecstatic to visit Michelle at her house. “What color’s her bedroom, Mommy?” The little girl’s eyes shone as Lorraine buckled her into the car.
“I don’t know. You make sure to tell me.”
Handing her over to Michelle, Lorraine promised it would only be a couple of hours before she returned.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be having fun.” Michelle smiled down at Tammy and squeezed her hand. “Right?”
Tammy grinned. “Uh-huh.”
Grief cut through Lorraine. She didn’t want Tammy to lose that happiness. She didn’t want Tammy to know her daddy wasn’t coming back.
At five forty-five Lorraine drove alone to her apartment, nervous and trembling. Even though the news reported she was staying away for the night, she couldn’t feel safe. She went around the block twice, down Huff Street, around and up Starling, craning her neck at the north and south entrances to check out the lot. She saw no one.
Lorraine pulled into her regular parking space around the corner from the front door and stared at Martin’s Pontiac. It looked so normal. As if he might come out any minute and drive off.
She wrenched her gaze away.
The yellow crime-scene tape was gone, and the police and technicians. All the storage units across the concrete seemed so eerily quiet. She could almost tell herself none of this had happened. It was morning on a healthy day for Tammy. Lorraine had just taken her to preschool and was returning. Martin was working at the bank.
As she got out of the van, Lorraine slid her gaze toward rental unit number seven.
She hid her purse underneath the front seat and locked the van. Slipping its key into her jean pocket, she walked around the corner to her front door. As she stood at the threshold to her apartment, she felt that storage unit behind her. Its contents throbbed under the late afternoon sun.
Lorraine inserted her key into the lock of her home. Her jaw flexed. For a moment she stood, one palm on the doorpost, her forehead resting against the wood. She imagined Martin inside, sitting on the frayed couch, watching television. “Hi, honey. Where’ve you been?”
What kind of life would she give her daughter? All she could see was darkness and fear.
Lorraine had never been much of a praying person, but she prayed now — for the strength to go on and to raise her daughter. When her eyes reopened, one final thought hovered, even though it may not be one God approved of. Vengeance. Martin’s killer needed to pay.
She turned around and stared at unit seven.
A minute later, gathering what courage she could find, Lorraine stepped inside the apartment.
THIRTY-SIX