Safe House

being careful to press the button with a short, respectful tap. Crystal Beth told me I’d be expected, but if the woman upstairs was listening, she’d still be scared. They all get that way after a while.

I saw a dim shape on the other side of the glass. Couldn’t make out if it was a man or a woman. I moved closer to the glass, keeping my shoulders slumped and face bland. I was wearing a charcoal suit with a faint pinstripe over a white shirt and burnt-orange tie, all visible under the camel’s-hair overcoat I got for a song from a busted-out gambler a couple of years ago. My shoes were plain black lace-ups, polished but not gleaming. My hair was cut medium-length and neatly combed. But I couldn’t do anything about my face.

The shape coalesced. A woman. Hard to tell her age. Dark hair, pale face. Wearing some kind of white housecoat. I stepped closer. So did she. But she didn’t move her hands, just stood there. Only the French doors between us—two wide panes of glass separated by two narrow panels of wood. Even an amateur could kick through it before she had a chance to run. I held out my hand so she could see the white business card I was holding. She still didn’t move. I slipped it between the flimsy doors the same way any fool could have used a credit card to loid the cheap snap-lock. She reached out and took it, stepped back to peer at it closely. I mimed for her to turn it over. On the back was a note from Crystal Beth in her own handwriting.

The woman took a deep breath, then reached forward and opened the doors, eyes darting as though she wanted to see around me, make sure I was alone. I stood to the side, letting her have a better view.

“You’re . . .”

“From Crystal Beth,” I finished for her.

She turned her back on me and started for the stairs. I stayed behind, not close enough to spook her. As she climbed, I could see the housecoat was really a lab gown of some kind. White low-cut shoes on her feet. A nurse, maybe?

The stairs were dirty, but not outstandingly so for New York. No discarded condoms, no live vermin, no graffiti. Still, she kept carefully away from the walls. “I never know what’s worse,” she said over her shoulder. “The stairs or the elevator. He could be . . . anywhere.”

“Why don’t you let me walk up ahead of you?” I asked her gently.

“I . . . okay,” she said, stepping aside for me to pass.

We came up the rest of the way in silence. “This is it,” she said from behind me, stepping past me to open a door to the fourth floor.

“I never know how to do this,” she said, moving down the hall over a carpet runner the exact color of slag. “When I go downstairs to get something. If I lock up behind me, he won’t be able to get in my apartment. But then, if he’s in the building, I won’t have time to unlock everything before he gets me. But if I don’t lock up, he can be inside. Waiting for me. That would be . . . worse, I think.”

She pulled a ring of keys from the lab coat. One lock was above the doorknob, another was set higher, a big deadbolt with a heavy strike-plate around it. She opened them both, pushed the door aside to let me pass.

The apartment opened into the living room. “Please sit down,” she said, gesturing toward a futon couch covered in plain white canvas. “Can I take your coat?”

“That’s all right,” I told her, slipping it off, folding it over my forearm and dropping it next to me as I sat down.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“I . . . I’m not sure where to begin.” She walked in a little circle, then abruptly sat down on a straight chair made out of a single piece of white molded plastic. She tugged at the hem of her lab coat, pulling it down across her knees as she looked across at me. Her eyes were scars.

“Pardon the cliche,” I said gently, “but at the beginning is always best.”

Her dull mouth twisted in what might have been a smile. “I’m sure. I expected . . . I don’t know. Someone who . . .”

“Some kind of thug?”

“No! I mean, Crystal Beth said you would be . . . I guess I just don’t have any . . . image of this. It all seems so . . . insane anyway.”

“I’m sure it does,” I said soothingly. “Still . . .”

“Yes. Still. It is happening, insane or not. And I need . . .”

“I know. Just tell me, all right?”

“Are you sure you don’t want any coffee?”

“I’m sure.”

“Do you mind if I . . . ?”

“Of course not,” I said politely, staying in that role, balm to her fear.

She got up quickly, left the room. I heard kitchen sounds. I glanced around the room. One empty white wall was dominated by a huge framed poster of the QE II, flags flying, just about to leave port. A set of shelves loaded with what looked like textbooks. One of those high-end mini-stereos—I recognized the distinct Bose wave shape. The floors were highly polished hardwood, the windows framed with mauve muslin curtains, pulled fully open. On an upended white plastic milk crate stood an elaborate phone-and-answering- machine, set up to work cordless as well. The plastic and canvas stuff wasn’t to save money—it was just her taste.

She came back into the living room, a steaming dark-brown mug in her hands. Took the seat she had before.

“This goes back almost three years,” she said. “To when I was a resident.”

A doctor, then, not a nurse.

“I met him about where you’d expect. In a bar. Only a few blocks from here. You don’t get much time for dating in medical school. You don’t get much time for anything, actually. Most of the other women were married. Or engaged. Or . . . connected in some way. I was . . . lonely. Not so much for a lover, for companionship. There were so many good things in my life, so much to look forward to. And nobody to share them with.”

As if on cue, a magnificent seal-point Siamese cat pranced into the room. It slinked over to her chair, rubbed against her leg. “Well, not nobody,” she said. “Isn’t that right, Orion?”

The cat purred.

“It’s funny,” she said. “Orion is so jealous. You’d think I’d be used to it. . . .”

Her voice trailed away into silence. I let it go for a few seconds, then I prodded her with: “He was jealous . . . ?”

“Not at first. I mean, it didn’t come up. Not really. He didn’t want me to see other men, but that wasn’t exactly a big problem,” she said ruefully. “It was kind of . . . sweet that he was so possessive. I wanted to be possessed, I thought. Treasured. Cherished. At first, that’s how it felt.”

“What does he do?” I asked her.

“To me? He . . . Oh, you mean work, right?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a stockbroker. No, that’s not right. A . . . portfolio manager. A ‘player,’ that’s what he always called himself. He would always say he was ‘making a play’ instead of buying something. For a client. He had only a small number of clients. He wasn’t one of those cold-callers, you know, the . . .”

“Salesmen?”

“Yes. He made that very clear. It was so important to him. He was a player, not a salesman. He had to study the . . . charts, he called them. Like a gambler betting on a horse. He said there was always money. The same amount of money. Nobody really makes money, that’s what he said. It’s the same money, it just changes hands. Some people win, some people lose.”

“Did you ever invest money with him?”

“Oh no. I mean, he never asked me. It wasn’t like that. He did help me with it, though. Money, I mean. Do you know what a SEP is?”

“No,” I lied.

“It’s a pension plan for the self-employed. It’s really a wonderful deal. One of the few breaks the IRS still