He’d unapologetically unbuttoned his pants to allow his belly to expand and was staring blankly at the television set. Ivan breathed heavily, evenly, like someone sleeping though he was obviously awake. He lifted a hand in greeting.
“Ivan,” he said, closing the door loudly behind him and placing his laptop bag on the floor near his brother’s feet. The place was a hovel-a couch they’d rescued from the curb, an old table with two plastic chairs, futons for beds. Sheets acted as curtains. The place hadn’t been cleaned since the last time he’d lost his patience with the filth, about a month earlier. But he didn’t care about that at the moment. “I’ve been thinking.”
“What have you been thinking?” Ivan asked apathetically. The massive Sony television and surrounding equipment-a PlayStation, audio system and speakers, DVD player-filled the far wall. Ivan might not shower for days, but he took his audiovisual very seriously. Where all the equipment had come from a few weeks earlier, whether bought or stolen, he didn’t know and didn’t care to know.
He told his brother about Marcus Raine, about the ideas he’d had. Ivan had a good laugh. “All these years I’ve been saying that you work too hard for too little. What finally changes your mind? Just one pretty girl?”
He couldn’t say what had changed his mind. At the time, he thought it was Camilla, the force of his desire for her. But, no. It was as if he’d lost the will to keep swimming against the current of his life. He’d just stopped kicking, stopped stroking, and let the flow take him. Ivan had a good laugh, patted him on the back, and congratulated him on seeing things as they were. And then they got to work. It seemed like so long ago. It was. A lifetime. He was a different man with a different name then.
CAMILLA WAS BEAUTIFUL even in death. He stood over her still body and remembered how warm her skin had been, how wet she always was for him. He imagined that she’d sensed his evil and, instead of repelling her, it excited her. He’d been wrong about that, though. When she saw him, really understood what he was, she’d turned against him.
He crouched down and pushed back the collar of her white shirt and saw the lace of her bra over the swell of her perfect breast. French and Italian women were always lauded for their sensual beauty. But Czech women, with their fine, hard features and their slim, long bodies, went unmentioned. Maybe it was their apparent lack of warmth, the unyielding quality of their aura-like Prague itself. Compared to Prague, Paris paled. But Prague was a side trip, somewhere Americans might spend a few days on their European tour. No one dreamed of Prague the way they did Paris. Paris glittered and danced for her audience, had already lifted her skirts and offered her treasures to the world. Prague still stood in the wings, holding herself aloof, offering nothing but coy glimpses of her perfection.
“I should have killed you long ago,” he whispered.
Then the buzzer rang, the sound startling him so badly, he felt as if he’d been jolted by an electric shock. He froze in his crouch by the body, and felt every breath he took until the buzzer rang again. Then there was silence and he waited. He heard a few buzzers ringing in other apartments. Whoever was down there was hoping someone would just open the door, maybe expecting a delivery or a maid. And then he heard the sound of the door unlocking, opening quickly and then slamming, the sound carrying up the stairwell. And then it was quiet. It was quiet for so long, he started to relax.
When the knob started to turn, he remembered too late that he hadn’t locked it behind him.
13
As soon as I exited my sister’s apartment, I saw her. She sat in an unmarked Caprice across the street, trying to hide behind a newspaper. But I recognized Jesamyn Breslow by the blond crown of her head, saw a flash of her face as she flipped the page of the newspaper. That’s why it had been so easy for me to get away. They wanted me to, thinking I might lead them to my husband.
I wanted to walk over and pound on her window, rage at her for following me when they should be doing some police work of their own. Tell her that I didn’t know any more than they did and was following the pathetic leads they unwittingly gave me. But instead I headed to the N/R station on Prince Street. I heard the car door slam and knew she had gotten out and was following me on foot. I walked fast, eventually ducking into the station.
A quick glance showed that she was still behind me. She was trying to hang back, still hiding behind that newspaper. I managed to lose her by squeezing onto a crowded uptown train. I took it one stop to Astor Place and then took the next train back downtown. I walked to Camilla Novak’s building on West Broadway and Broome Street. I’d always loved SoHo, something so grand and yet terminally hip about it, somehow swank and grunge at the same time-the galleries and upscale shops with huge picture windows representing outrageous rents, narrow residential buildings, tony cafes, only the very coolest bars and restaurants. Once known as the Cast Iron District, SoHo boasted huge historic buildings with gigantic windows and upper floors that were wide-open loft spaces, appealing to artists because of the square footage, natural light, and cheap rents. They moved into the spaces illegally in the 1970s, ignoring the city zoning at the time, but the depressed city was too embroiled in its other messes-rampant crime, a shattered economy-to care.
Most people didn’t realize that more than 250 buildings were made with cast iron. Architects found cast iron to be cheap, could be fashioned into the most intricate design patterns, and was easily repaired. It was also the strength and pliability of this metal that allowed for the carving of magnificent frames and the tall windows so beloved by artists. Unfortunately, when exposed to heat, cast iron buckled. Steel brought a rapid end to the use of cast iron. I know all of this because of Jack, the original New York City geek.
When I came to the address I’d written down, I rang the buzzer hard, a few times.
But there wasn’t any answer. I didn’t have any reason to believe that she’d been here when I talked to her; I might have reached her on her cell phone. And if she had been here, maybe she’d left afraid that I’d do exactly what I’d done, look her up on the Web and show up at her door. She’d wanted to talk to me once. Why had she changed her mind?
I rang the buzzer again. When there was still no answer, I started ringing other buzzers in the building, hoping someone would just let me in. I had no clear idea what I would do if I had gained admittance. I was just operating on a kind of autopilot, moving forward on instinct with little planning and no visibility beyond the present tense.
I was about to give up when a voice carried over the intercom.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Camilla,” I lied. “I forgot my keys.”
“Again?” crackled an elderly voice. “I’m not letting you in next time.”
I heard the door unlock and I pushed my way into the foyer. Black and white tile beneath my feet, cool concrete walls, milky light washing in from a window on the first landing. Now what, genius? I thought, pushing through the second door.
I peered up the staircase. I could hear the sound of a cat mewing, the frenzy of a game show on someone’s television. Somewhere in the building a baby was crying. As I started up the stairs, I patted my bag for my cell phone, on reflex wanting to call my sister. But it was gone, I remembered. I’d left it behind. I felt suddenly as if I was alone in the dark without a flashlight. In the woods, feeling my way.
On the fourth floor, I paused, then walked slowly in the grainy light filtering in from a frosted, double-paned window at the end of the hallway. 4A was the first door on the right. I looked at it; someone had painted it recently, a glossy black compared to the dull gray of the others on the floor. What would I do? Knock? Listen at the door? I almost turned around and left, almost took Erik’s advice and headed uptown to the lawyer’s office. Instead I put my hand on the knob and, against all better judgment, turned it and found the door unlocked. This, I knew, was not a good thing.
The rules dictated a hasty retreat, a return to the fold. Like my nephew, I could suddenly see five moves ahead and know that I was out of my depth. And yet I kept moving, pushing the door, heading inside the apartment like a lemming to the precipice.
Inside, the lighting was dim, all the shades drawn. I heard the ringing of a cellular phone, light and musical. It stopped. Then, a second later, it started ringing again. I stayed rooted in the door frame, my hand still on the knob.
