“Why not?”
“Because she was a stone-cold bitch, always pounding on the wall and yelling at me to be quiet. Before Gary left, they made more noise than I did.”
“Doing what?”
“Fighting. All the time.”
“She told me Gary abused her,” I said. “Does that sound right?”
She let out a harsh laugh, one that was much too knowing for someone her age. “The other way around, maybe. Gary’s a sweetheart. He was always doing for her, or trying to. She was the one always yelling at him and putting him down.” Kimberly had been slowly drifting toward the door. She wanted to get back to her party. “Can I-”
“Yeah, just one more second.” I held up the key Rachel had given me. “I would like to get inside to look around. Any ideas on how I can do that?”
“My mom had the locks changed.”
“You’re mom’s the land-”
“You can’t talk to her. You can’t.” It wasn’t up for discussion.
“I won’t tell her anything. I just need-”
“No, she’s working, and she doesn’t know any more than I do. But there’s-” She crossed her arms, rolled her head back, and went all teenager cagey. “If I give you something, will you go away and promise to leave us alone?”
“Yes.”
“Wait here.”
She went inside, reached up next to the door, and came out with a set of keys on a ring. She held up the one marked with a blue rubber rim. “These are the new keys. You can go in and look around, but you have to promise-”
“I won’t say anything.”
“Just leave them inside, and don’t lock the door.”
I reached for the ring and nearly had my arm severed by the force of the slamming door.
It was, indeed, the blue key that unlocked the front door. I flipped on the overhead light and beheld the empty space. It looked like a place that had been quickly abandoned, which was to say dirty. Dust bunnies floated around the empty hardwood floors, and something in the musty air made me sneeze. Bent nails and long gashes marked where pictures had hung on the walls-walls that throbbed from the pounding beat of the party next door. Rachel might have been a bitch, but she hadn’t been wrong about the noise.
A quick spin through the upstairs bedrooms turned up nothing but a couple of lonely wire coat hangers in one of the closets and an explanation for what was making me sneeze. There was a cat litter box in the bathroom. Also a used bar of soap in the shower and a bunch of balled-up tissues and used Q-tips, which might have been of interest if I were a forensic scientist with a lab. As it was, it pissed me off all the more to be looking at Rachel’s trash. Needless to say, there were no family photos or jewelry to retrieve. There was no abusive husband. There was nothing that even remotely resembled the story Rachel had told.
By the time I got downstairs and found all the kitchen cabinets standing open, there was no force on earth that could have kept me from going through and slamming every one of them. Childish but necessary. The same for kicking the large garbage bins in the alley that turned out to be empty as well.
I went back inside, through the house to the front room where the window looked out on the street. I split the blinds to peek through. There was a black sedan parked halfway down the block that hadn’t been there when I’d come in. It had two guys in it and was just nondescript enough to be cops. Maybe that’s what she was doing. Maybe I was supposed to be a decoy.
The small scope I carried on my key chain was about the size of a large pocketknife. I used it to find the sedan’s license plate and copied the number in my notebook.
I had to call Harvey, but first I had to think of a delicate way to explain to him that the woman he still cared about was, and probably always had been, a scheming bitch. I pulled out my phone, stood in the front room, and stared at it. I went and stood in the kitchen and stared at it some more. Then I sat on the stairs with my chin in my hand and thought some more. There just isn’t much to work with in an empty house when you’re trying to stall. I put the phone away. This was news better served up in person.
3
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON WHEN I PULLED UP IN FRONT OF Harvey’s house. I went up the front steps juggling two cups of hot brew from Tealuxe and searching for the front door key. But I didn’t need a key. I didn’t even need to twist the knob, because the door was closed but not latched. I cursed Rachel for her careless indifference. She had to have been the one to leave it open, because Harvey never would.
Another thing he never did was listen to music, but when I pushed the door open, instead of the usual hospital-grade silence, I was greeted with a big, muscular blast of Motown. The music was loud but distant, echoing through the halls and around the corners of the old house. It was so jarring and unexpected I just stood in the foyer and listened. It was the Temptations singing “Since I Lost My Baby,” and it was coming from upstairs, the part of the house Harvey didn’t occupy. The part of the house no one occupied.
“Harvey?”
I pulled the door halfway closed and strained to hear his voice or his cough or the sound of his wheels rolling across hardwood. I got nothing but big horns, lush violins, and immaculate backup vocals. I didn’t like the feeling.
“Harvey, are you here?”
The last time Harvey had failed to answer my call was the day he fell down in the shower. I found him there, staring straight ahead, with blood and cold water dribbling down his face. He had hit his head in the fall. After being briefly unconscious, he had come to, but without the strength to get up, or even to turn off the water. It had run so long the hot water had run out. That was the day he quit flirting with the wheelchair and surrendered for good. This felt different.
I set the tea on the floor in the foyer, slipped the Glock out, and did a press check. I didn’t like pulling the thing out-ever-but nothing about the day had turned out the way I’d expected, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that Rachel had opened the door and let something bad blow into the house. The music was giving it voice. A house filled with dance music was such a departure from the way Harvey usually lived. It gave me the feeling he was already gone. I put the thought aside, left the door open, and moved in, staying close to the walls.
David Ruffin’s voice, silky and forlorn, drifted through the house as a bead of sweat squeezed out from between my palm and the gun’s grip. It ran straight down the inside of my forearm as I got ready to make the corner into the living room.
The birds are singing and the children are playing,
There’s plenty of work and the bosses are paying
You looked at Harvey and thought polka. Maybe Perry Como if you wanted to stretch it. Not James Brown or Marvin Gaye or Curtis Mayfield, and certainly not Isaac Hayes. But that’s what I had found the day I’d come to help him move his life downstairs. I had sat on the floor, cross-legged, flipping through his LPs until he’d called me on my cell phone from downstairs. When I’d told him what I was doing, he didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he told me to put them back, to leave the records as I had found them. As far as I knew, that’s where they had stayed, and that’s where the music was coming from now-what was supposed to be an empty room upstairs.
I turned into the doorway, trying to stay under control, and scanned the front room. It was a seldom-used space with blinds perpetually closed. Nothing was moving or out of place, so I kept going.
The kitchen gleamed in the bright light of the cheap old onion-shaped fixture that hung overhead. The frosted bowl had a couple of bug corpses lying inside. I’d never seen them because the single small bulb over the stove was what usually lit that room. Harvey wasn’t in there, either.
He wasn’t in the dining room or his office. I checked his downstairs bedroom suite last, hoping to find his bathroom door closed. It was open. The light was off.