'Just what I already told you. I called her and I got a feeling, I don't know why, and I came here.'
'What time?'
'After two. I didn't notice the exact time.'
'You came right upstairs?'
'That's right.'
'The doorman see you?'
'We sort of nodded at each other. He knows me, thinks I live here.'
'Will he remember you?'
'Man, I don't know what he remembers and what he forgets.'
'He just work weekends or was he on Friday as well?'
'I don't know. What's the difference?'
'If he's been on every night he might remember he saw you but not remember when. If he just works Saturdays—'
'I get you.'
In the small kitchen a bottle of Georgi vodka stood on the sink board with an inch's depth of liquor left in it. Beside it was an empty cardboard quart of orange juice. A glass in the sink held a residue of what looked like a mixture of the two, and there'd been a faint trace of orange in the reek of her vomit. You didn't need to be much of a detective to put those pieces together. Pills, washed down with a batch of strong screwdrivers, their sedative effect boosted by the alcohol.
I hope I took enough this time.
I had to fight the impulse to pour the last of the vodka down the drain.
'How long were you here, Chance?'
'I don't know. Didn't pay attention to the time.'
'Talk to the doorman on the way out?'
He shook his head. 'I went down to the basement and out through the garage.'
'So he wouldn't have seen you.'
'Nobody saw me.'
'And while you were here—'
'Like I said. I looked in the drawers and closets. I didn't touch many things and I didn't move anything.'
'You read the note?'
'Yeah. But I didn't pick it up to do it.'
'Make any phone calls?'
'My service, to check in. And I called you. But you weren't there.'
No, I hadn't been there. I'd been breaking a boy's legs in an alley three miles to the north.
I said, 'No long-distance calls.'
'Just those two calls, man. That ain't a long distance. You can just about throw a rock from here to your hotel.'
And I could have walked over last night, after my meeting, when her number failed to answer. Would she still have been alive by then? I imagined her, lying on the bed, waiting for the pills and vodka to do their work, letting the phone ring and ring and ring. Would she have ignored the doorbell the same way?
Maybe. Or maybe she'd have been unconscious by then. But I might have sensed that something was wrong, might have summoned the super or kicked the door in, might have gotten to her in time—
Oh, sure. And I could have saved Cleopatra from the fucking asp, too, if I hadn't been born too late.
I said, 'You had a key to this place?'
'I have keys to all their places.'
'So you just let yourself in.'
He shook his head. 'She had the chain lock on. That's when I knew something was wrong. I used the key and the door opened two, three inches and stopped on account of the chain, and I knew there was trouble. I busted the chain and came on in and just knew I was gonna find something I didn't want to see.'
'You could have gone right out. Left the chain on, gone home.'
'I thought of that.' He looked full at me and I was seeing his face less armored than I'd seen it before.
'You know something? When that chain was on, the thought came to me right away that she killed herself. First thing I thought of, only thing I thought of. Reason I broke that chain, I figured maybe she was still alive, maybe I could save her. But it was too late.'
I went to the door, examined the chain lock. The chain itself had not broken; rather, the assembly had ripped loose from its moorings on the doorjamb and hung from the door itself. I hadn't noticed it when we let ourselves into the apartment.
