I swallowed, unsure of what to do. I had actually, kind of made out with this guy's wife within the past hour.
"Won't you come into the main room?" he asked.
Bobby held out his hand to me, but I shook my head no. "Once again, I'm not dressed, and you're pretending like I am."
"You'd be considered overdressed where I want to take you."
"Then I don't want to go."
I heard the door open, and Doyle was back. When he saw Bobby, he almost dropped my tequila gimlet. "Robert," Declan said and cleared his throat. "Good to see you."
"Can you zip my dress?"
Doyle handed me my drink and zipped me up. Robert didn't take his eyes off me. "I was just admiring your date. I invited her to the main room, but she seems frightened."
"I'm not scared," I said. "You creeped me out."
Doyle's eyes were huge when he looked at me. "Joy, you really shouldn't--"
"It's OK, Declan. I like a lady who is not afraid to share her thoughts. I also like a little bruising. He motioned to my cheek. Did Doyle do that?"
"No," I said.
"Your lips are swollen too, I like that."
"Sir--" Doyle started, but Robert stopped him with a wave of his hand. He approached me, and there was nowhere to back up.
"I'd like to show you something, if you don't mind?"
I looked at Declan, and he nodded his head. "I guess," I said.
He took my arm. I slurped my tequila. We walked through the stacks until we came to a large fireplace. "Declan, will you please?"
Declan scurried forward into the fireplace. It was as tall as him, made of pale grey stone, blackened by years of smoke. Declan pushed against the back wall, and it opened. I love secret passageways and was absolutely delighted when it opened to reveal another room.
Robert led me into the small space. It was actually quite long but the ceiling was only about eight feet high. Shackles lined one wall, and on the other hung whips, chains, paddles, and ball gags--everything an S&M club might need.
Bobby turned to me. "I hope you will have a go at me."
I pulled away from him and walked to the wall. I was sore after my time with Declan, but there was something here that I really liked. I ran a hand over one of the whips--not for me I thought. Doyle stepped past me and replaced a paddle on the way. It must have been the one he used on me. I blushed at the memory. That was more my speed. These seemed to be weapons of escape.
A couple entered the room from a different entrance. They were clearly intoxicated. I recognized the man almost immediately as one of the people Mulberry wanted me to find. And here he was in an S&M dungeon in the most elite club in New York City.
"Are you all playing?" he asked. The woman by his side was small and plump and very much his junior. Her eyes were glassy, and I'd have bet good money she was high.
"No, we were just leaving," I said. I led the way out of the room. Mr. Maxim followed closely behind me. I spilled a little of my drink onto my dress and stopped to wipe at it. Robert was suddenly there with a pocket square wiping at my breast. Declan didn't say anything.
Mr. Maxim looked into my eyes and, dropping the square, reached into my dress ripping the fabric and grabbed my breast. I slapped him across the face. He turned back to me and laughed. I pulled back and slugged him knocking him back. He stumbled but quickly regained himself. When he looked back at me his eyes were bright. "Yes," he said. "That's it. Just wonderful." He reached out to grab at me again, but I turned on my heel and marched out of the library. I could hear him laughing.
Doyle chased me down and grabbed my arm before I could get back into the front hall. "Joy, wait," he said.
"You just let that guy grab at me like that," I spat at him.
"This is usually a shared experience. I told you why we were coming here."
"I don't think I like it."
He smiled. "You did a minute ago. Robert doesn't mean anything. He just likes a good fight."
"I want to go home," I felt tired and confused. He was right. I had put myself in this situation. Why wouldn't that old asshole think he could touch me? I just fucked a guy in a library while handcuffed to a shelving unit. It was a joke to be acting like I was a lady. "He ripped my dress."
"I'll get you a new one," Doyle said.
"Just take me home."
Doyle got my wrap, and I covered my ripped dress with it. As we moved through the main hall, I saw that most of the older crowd had left. Elaine was cornered by a balding man in a red vest, but she did not seem to mind at all. There was an electric charge in the air. I stopped for a moment and turned around, surveying the whole space. Doyle looked at me, questioning.
"Are they all going to fuck each other?" I asked.
Doyle laughed. "Not all of them, but yeah, a lot of them."
"Do you do this all the time?"
He shook his head. "Not all the time."
"But a lot?"
He reached under my wrap and caressed the top of my breast. Gently, he moved his hand into where the dress was ripped. "Enough so that I know what I'm doing."
I suddenly realized I was in way over my head as I leaned into him for a kiss.
Weird Phone Call
My phone woke me. I rolled over and tried to ignore it. I heard myself on my answering machine encouraging the caller to leave their name, number, and a brief message after the beep. "Beep!" "Hi, this is Julen. I am calling you back." "Beep!"
"Well, Blue, I guess it's time to get out of bed." He snorted softly and tucked his head farther under his back leg. I watched him breathing slowly at the foot of my bed and decided that I loved my dog. He had gained weight since moving in with me, and there was something about his soft, rhythmic breathing, his lightly closed eyelids, and the sound of air passing through his nose that overwhelmed me.
"Come on, boy. Let's get up." He ignored me. "Blue, it's time to get up." I prodded him with my foot. He grumbled but didn't move. "Fine. I'll get up." As soon as I pulled the blanket off myself, his head popped out. I slipped on a robe and made for the kitchen. My body was sore but not in a bad way. It felt like I'd spent some time at the gym working out.
I turned on the radio and the coffeemaker, both of which sputtered to life. Blue followed me around the small space of the kitchen as I gathered coffee, sugar, and milk. I spooned a cup of dog food into Blue's bowl, which he crunched on as the coffee machine filled the house with the irresistible smell of fresh-brewed French roast.
After enjoying most of the pot of coffee and listening to the news of the day while staring out my living room window, I went to get dressed. I had slight bruising on my wrists, and there was no way I was putting on any tight pants. I found a long, loose skirt and a pile of bangles that made me look like a hippy but covered up the evidence of the previous nights "play."
I took Blue for his morning business. Blue inspected a nearby tree, a somewhat fascinating piece of newspaper, and the tire of a Vespa. When I got back upstairs, my message machine blinked two. I listened to Julen's message again. The second message was from Mulberry. He sounded sad or something. He wanted me to call.
"Why are you calling me?" Julen asked.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I just had a couple of questions."
"Are you a cop?"
"What?"
"Don't call me anymore. I told your friends I would do what they asked. Just leave me alone. Leave me alone." He sounded on the verge of tears. "Leave me alone." Julen slammed the phone down, missed the receiver, cursed, and then another bang, and the line was dead.
"What the fuck was that about?" I asked out loud. My friends? Who would my friends be? Cops? He thinks I'm a cop. So maybe the cops asked him to do something. But what? I immediately called Mulberry.
"Hey, it's Joy."
"I'm glad you called. How did it go last night?"
I didn't want to get into that. At the moment I wasn't sure how much I wanted to tell him. I rubbed at my wrist. "Fine. I saw some of the guys
you asked me to look for."
"Great, great. Can we meet?"
"How about happy hour at Flannigan's on the West Side."
"Sure, that'd be great. Thanks again."
"It was my pleasure."
Drinking with the Detective
When I went to meet Mulberry, the place was filled with smoke despite the statewide ban. Looking around the dim, wood-paneled space, I saw him at the bar talking with an older man over pints of amber beer. Not wanting to interrupt them, I walked over to the jukebox.
Four quarters bought me two songs. "Oney" by Johnny Cash--the song of a man who after 29 years of "builden' muscles puts his point across with a right hand full of knuckles."--followed by "How Long Has This Been Going On?" sung by the one and only Judy Garland. I've never really understood that song. I couldn't tell if she has been cheated on and wants to pretend it didn't happen or if she just found out her man was cheating on her and wants to know how long it's been going on. But that had nothing to do with why I put it on. She belts out, "kiss me once, then once more" in a way that makes me tingle.
My two songs came and went. The detective's drinking partner left, and I moved around the bar to sit with Mulberry.
"Hey, how long have you been here?" he asked.
"Long enough to drink most of this pint. I'm ready for another. You?" He called over the bartender, an Irish guy with bulging muscles and piercing blue eyes, who you could just tell was a rabid rugby fan. "Another round," I told him. He moved off to pour our pints.
"I've got some pretty fascinating information for you," Mulberry said.
"And I for you," I said, still unsure of how I was going to tell him about what happened the night before.
"That man who just walked out," he said, pointing at the door with his almost empty glass, "He's the pathologist assigned to Tate Hausman's case, and--" The bartender came back with our pints and a shot of whiskey for Mulberry. He downed the shot, paid, and the bartender went away. "He did the autopsy on Tate, and he says that he died of strangulation but not from being hung up the way he was. Tate was strangled while lying face down." I sipped my beer and listened. "He thinks he had a fight with the killer. The murderer managed to knock Tate to the ground then choked him using the same line he hung him up with. Tate was already dead when the perp suspended him from the ceiling."
"That makes sense." His eyebrows rose. "As far as I could tell, Tate Hausman was not a part of the scene I attended last night."
"Really?"
"Elaine was there, and she said that, get this, Charlene e-mailed her and asked her to start a rumor about the two of them."
"What?"
"She thinks it was to throw people off the truth that Charlene was having an affair with Joseph Saperstein.
"I suspected as much." he said sighing.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He shook his head. "Doesn't matter."
"I thought we were working on this thing together!"
"Keep your voice down," Mulberry whispered.
"Sorry, but really."
"You're right. I'm sorry."
"Is there anything else I don't know?"
"No."
"OK then." I sulked for a moment. "I don't think the message was from Charlene."
"Of course not. She's not an idiot. Tell me, did you see anyone there? Anyone I asked you to look out for?"
"Yes." I'd gotten home late last night, but I'd made sure to check the photographs before passing out. "The Commissioner of Police, Harold Faultner."
Mulberry banged his fist on the bar. "I knew it! Faultner is pushing too hard on this thing. That guy," he said, pointing to the door referencing the pathologist, "told me he was being asked to rule Tate's death a suicide."
"Is he going to do it?"
"Yeah, I think so." Mulberry shook his head. "He's close to retirement. I mean he's got too much to lose."
"I think someone is leaning on Faultner. I don't think it's his idea."
"Yeah? What makes you say that?"
"I don't know." I thought back to the drunken man and the pudgy girl we'd left behind at the fireplace. "He didn't seem like a killer. And what would his motive be? I could believe he is being blackmailed but not that he is the killer."
"Look," he leaned towards me. "There is someone with a hell of a lot of clout trying to make Tate suicidal and Mrs. Saperstein a black widow." He leaned back and picked up his beer. "It's not just the Commissioner. When I tried to get a warrant for Charlene's place I was refused. Do you know how ridiculous that is?" He looked up at me, and I shrugged my shoulders.
"But I thought you did search her place."
He smiled. "Yeah, I got a different judge and myself off the case."
"Alright, so someone is manipulating the pathologist, judges, and the police commissioner." We sat in silence for a while draining our beers and thinking. "You know Robert Maxim?"
Mulberry turned slowly toward me. "Yeah. Everyone knows Robert Maxim."
"It was his dog."
"You're saying maybe it wasn't a coincidence?"
"Maybe the dog knew the body was there." Mulberry narrowed his eyes. "He was at the party--playing. I saw him talking to the police commissioner, and he is obviously a powerful guy."
"Powerful is practically an understatement. He basically runs this city. I mean Fortress Global provides security for half the corporations based out of New York, both overseas and in the States. He is up to his neck in this city."
"But look, I'm telling you the guy is deep into S&M. He married a dominatrix."
Mulberry choked on his sip of beer. "What?"
"Yeah." And she's kind of hot I thought to myself. "My point is if you're this all- powerful guy-, why would you kill someone not as important as you, using a method that would make it look like you did it? That's almost as dumb as Charlene writing an e-mail to Elaine asking her to spread rumors that make her look guilty of murder."
"Someone else must have written it," Mulberry said, his half-intoxicated tongue fumbling over the word written, making it sound like witten.
"What?
"The e-mail to Elaine from Charlene. Someone else must have written it."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Hacking into someone's e-mail account isn't exactly brain surgery. I mean, if this person can turn murder into suicide and a grieving widow into a murderess, then a bogus e-mail would be child's play."
"Good point."
"It's someone who knows about the parties and is powerful enough to control the most important people in the city. Possibly even Robert Maxim." Mulberry contemplated his beer and then, with a smile on his lips, continued, "The only person more powerful than the people we're talking about is the mayor, and I don't think he's running around killing stockbrokers and accountants."
We both sipped our beers. "That is crazy? Right?"
"Yes," Mulberry said without looking at me.
"There's no way."
"None."
"He was friends with Tate."
"Even more of a reason not to murder him."
"They were scuba buddies, you know?" I said.
"Yeah, I watch TV."
We sat in silence for a moment.
"Another round?" the bartender offered. The beers arrived dripping with condensation. Mulberry threw back his shot, slamming the small glass onto the bar.
"I got a really weird phone call from Julen this morning. He told me not to call him anymore and said he did what my friends asked. Any idea?"
Mulberry was staring at me. "He changed his statement yesterday afternoon. He now says that Mrs. Saperstein was not with him. That she wanted to kill her husband."
"Jesus." My phone rang. "Excuse me." It was James, and he was almost drunk.
"You have to come out here," he yelled over the background noise.
"Where?"
"I'm on the Lower East Side at Meow Mix and there's the greatest band playing. They're called 'The Pussy.'"
"What?"
> "The Pussy. You'll love it. Get over here."
"I'll see you in a bit." I walked back to Mulberry.
"I was just thinking," Mulberry said as I sat back down on my stool. "The woman in the doorway--the blond that Chamers saw."
"Yeah?
"You know, we never figured out where she went. We combed the place. We opened every locked door, went down every passage. We even had the head of the building, William Franklin, helping us. We found all sorts of shit. Boxes of records" he said as he ticked off a finger, "old wet suits," another finger, "dust, a lot of dust," he looked at his third finger for a while then continued, "but no unsecured or surveillanced exit."
"Is there surveillance in the halls?"
"I wish. Only on the parking entrances, and all the other doors have alarms, like the alley exit."
"Maybe she was disguised and changed before she entered one of the parking lots."
"No. No women at all during that period."
"Maybe she hid in the building."
Mulberry waved his hand, "There is no way. We searched the whole place. Trust me. She did not leave through any of the exits that we know about, and unless she is down there right now crouching in a corner, the woman is a ghost."
"What's your point?"
"I think there's an exit we don't know about. There has to be." His cheeks were flushed.
"So you want to try and find it?"
"I want you to try and find it."
"What? Come on. How am I supposed to do that?"
"Talk to Chamers. He liked you."
"He's not going to tell me anything he didn't already tell you."
"You have to." He slammed his drink down, and beer sloshed over the rim of the mug.
"Whoa, I don't have to do anything." I stood up. "I'll talk to you when you're a bit more sober."
"What? You're leaving? Come on," he whined.
"You're drunk and I'm outta here." I turned to leave. He grabbed my arm, and I ripped it away from him. "Back off," I hissed at him.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please sit down." I turned and left.
Meow Mix
I found James drunk, leaning on a dirty bar, sipping from the lip of a Corona bottle. "Hey," I yelled over the music.
"You made it," he shouted. "Let's get you a drink." James waved to the bartender, a woman with a shaved head and an 'I heart Mom' tattoo on her neck. On stage, four girls in short skirts with dark eye makeup jiggled. The lead singer, her faux hawk dyed midnight blue, held the mike right up to her full lips and screamed while shaking her thin legs. The guitarist moved to the edge of the stage and rubbed her instrument between her thighs to the wild cheers of the crowd. "Here." James pushed a shot of tequila into my hand.