You've Been Warned

It rings and rings. Damn it.

The answering machine comes on, and I’m about to hang up when I hear “Hello?” I recognize her accent immediately. It’s Maria. Only today’s not one of the days she cleans. In fact, it’s not even “day” anymore; it’s night.

“Maria, it’s me, Kristin,” I say, trying not to sound anxious. “What are you doing there?”

“I’m babysitting,” she answers. “Mrs. Turnbull call me last minute to come over.”

“Where’s Mr. Turnbull?”

“With Mrs. Turnbull. They go out to dinner.”

That stops me cold. Dinner? Together? “You don’t know where they went, do you?”

“No. They give me cell phone numbers in case of emergency. I call them, you want.”

“No, no, that’s okay.”

“When they come home later, I say you call.”

“No! Don’t—” I catch myself and settle down. “I mean, that’s not necessary. I’ll talk to Mrs. Turnbull tomorrow.”

I thank Maria and hang up, not knowing whether to be relieved or even more worried. Probably the latter. After the way Michael reacted to seeing Penley this morning, the last thing I’d expect would be their having dinner together.

Unless of course there’s more to it. As in, what Michael’s not telling me.

I page Michael again. If he’s really having dinner with Penley, why can’t he simply excuse himself and return my call?

I start to cry and hate that I do. I can’t help myself, though. The more I dwell on this, the harder it gets to take.

I’m about to pour myself another drink when I realize it’s not alcohol that I need.

I need my darkroom.

A minute later, under the faint red glow of my safety light, I get busy developing the film I snapped of Penley and Stephen outside the Falcon. I still can’t believe they walked out of there together. Maybe it’s true what they say: people having affairs secretly want to get caught.

Whether that’s really the case with Penley and Stephen isn’t clear.

But soon, as I stare at the first shot of them, I see what is. No!

Stephen’s image is transparent.

Just like Penley’s.

Just like the body bags.

But it still doesn’t make sense.

My dream is more than a dream. It’s real. It happened. Past tense. I know because I was there.

And it’s not only me, is it? Someone else knows I was at the Falcon.

Of course, he’s about the last person on Earth I want to see again. Am I so nuts that I’d seek him out?

No, just very, very desperate.

Chapter 87

I DIG THE CARD he gave me out of my shoulder bag, bold black lettering printed on thick white stock. Detective Frank Delmonico, 19th Precinct, 153 E. 67th Street.

Just the sight of his name makes me uneasy. The phone number is crossed out and another is written above it in pen. A couple of the digits I can’t make out, not that it matters. I have no intention of letting him know I’m coming, of course. I’m banking on the element of surprise. That, and something else.

Only a complete idiot would physically assault me in a building filled with cops.

Taking deep breaths most of the way, I cab it over to the East Side, the precinct mere blocks from the Falcon. Amid the streetlamps and multiple floodlights, the stone building seems to glow under the night sky. It’s actually quite beautiful, albeit in a foreboding kind of way.

In fact, given different circumstances, I’d be reaching for my camera to shoot it. Not now, though.

I’ve taken enough scary pictures for a while.

As I walk inside, two young policemen are walking out, deep in conversation. One glances my way, giving me a quick nod and a smile. I’m about to ask him if Delmonico is here, when from the corner of my eye I see what looks like the front desk.

Behind it sits another officer, a hard-nosed type, much older, bulky, red faced, Irish as Paddy’s pig. He’s typing something into a computer as I approach him.

“Help you?” he says without so much as looking up from the monitor. So far he’d never be able to pick me out of a lineup.

“Yes,” I answer. “I’m here to see Detective Frank Delmonico.”

His stubby fingers practically freeze on the keyboard. Slowly, he turns to me, his eyes collapsing into a squint. “Excuse me?”

What’s that supposed to mean? “Is Detective Delmonico here or isn’t he?”

He shakes his head. “No, he’s not here.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Matter of fact, I do. He’s dead. That’s where he is.”

I take a wobbly step back. “What? I just saw him. He came to my apartment.”

The officer leans forward in his chair.

“When was this?”

“A few days ago.”

“I think you’re mistaken, Miss—I don’t think I caught the name?”

“No, I’m sure of it. He was at my apartment.”

He nods, stifles a chuckle. “Oh, yeah?”

How can he be so cavalier about this? “I’m telling you the truth. Actually, I talked to him several times in the past week. He’s very thin. Older?”

The officer leans forward even farther, stone-faced. “Now, let me tell you the truth,” he says slowly. “Delmonico has been dead for over three years.”

I stand there in stunned silence as the precinct lobby begins to whirl around me. I can feel the blood draining from my head. My knees are starting to go.

“Hey, you okay?”

No, I’m not. I’m absolutely, positively not okay. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy?” I ask. “Detective Frank Delmonico? Homicide?”

“Yep. Frank Delmonico.” He mutters something else under his breath.

“What? I didn’t hear that last part.”

“It was nothing.”

“It was obviously something. What was it?”

He glares at me. Who does this chick think she is?

But I don’t back down. I actually raise my voice. “I want to know what you said!”

The cop shrugs. “Hey, if you insist. I said, the cocksucker.”

As if I’m not confused enough. “Why would you say that about him?”

“You a reporter?” he snaps.

“No. Hardly.”

“All the same, we’re not supposed to talk about it. It was in all the papers at the time. Press has a ball with those kind of stories.”

“I didn’t live here then. What happened?”

“Let’s just say the detective’s not exactly missed around here.”