Eight Million Ways to Die (26 page)

"I always looked in her medicine chest," he was saying. "Just automatically, you know? And all she ever had was this antihistamine stuff for her hay fever. Then I open this drawer last night and it's a regular drugstore in there. All prescription stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"I didn't read every label. Didn't want to leave any prints where they shouldn't be. From what I saw, it's mostly downs. A lot of tranks.

Valium, Librium, Elavil. Sleeping pills like the Seconal here. A couple things of ups, like whatchacallit, Ritalin. But mostly downs." He shook his head. "There's things I never heard of. You'd need a doctor to tell you what everything was."

"You didn't know she took pills?"

"Had no idea. Come here, look at this." He opened a dresser drawer carefully so as not to leave prints.

"Look," he said, pointing. At one side of the drawer, beside a stack of folded sweaters, stood perhaps two dozen pill bottles.

"That's somebody who's into this shit pretty heavy," he said.

"Somebody who's scared to run out. And I didn't know about it. That gets to me, Matt. You read that note?"

The note was on the vanity, anchored with a bottle of Norell cologne. I nudged the bottle aside with the back of my hand and carried the note over to the window. She'd written it in brown ink on beige notepaper and I wanted to read it in decent light.

I read:

Kim, you were lucky. You found someone to do it for you, I have to do it myself.

If I had the guts I would use the window. I could change my mind halfway down and laugh the rest of the way. But I haven't got the guts and the razor blade didn't work.

I hope I took enough this time.

It's no use. The good times are all used up. Chance, I'm sorry. You showed me good times but they're gone. The crowds went home in the eighth inning. All the cheering stopped. Nobody's even keeping score anymore.

There's no way off the merry-go-round. She grabbed the brass ring and it turned her finger green.

Nobody's going to buy me emeralds. Nobody's going to give me babies. Nobody's going to save my life.

I'm sick of smiling. I'm tired of trying to catch up and catch on. All the good times are gone.

I looked out the window across the Hudson at the Jersey skyline.

Sunny had lived and died on the thirty-second floor of a high-rise apartment complex called Lincoln View Gardens, though I hadn't seen any trace of garden beyond the potted palms in the lobby.

"That's Lincoln Center down there," Chance said.

I nodded.

"I should have put Mary Lou here. She likes concerts, she could just walk over. Thing is, she used to live on the West Side. So I wanted to move her to the East Side. You want to do that, you know. Make a big change in their lives right away."

I didn't much care about the philosophy of pimping. I said, "She do this before?"

"Kill herself?"

"Try to. She wrote 'I hope I took enough this time.' Was there a time she didn't take enough?"

"Not since I've known her. And that's a couple years."

"What does she mean when she says the razor blade didn't work?"

"I don't know."

I went to her, examined the wrist of the arm stretched out above her head. There was a clearly perceptible horizontal scar. I found an identical scar on her other wrist. I stood up, read the note again.

"What happens now, man?"

I got out my notebook and copied what she'd written word for word. I used a Kleenex to remove what prints I'd left on it, then put it back where I'd found it and anchored it again with the cologne bottle.

I said, "Tell me again what you did last night."

"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.

"You broke this when you came in?"

"Like I said."

"The chain could have been unfastened when you let yourself in.

Then you could have locked it and broken it from inside."

"Why would I do that?"

"To make it look as though the apartment was locked from the inside when you got here."

"Well, it was. I didn't have to. I don't get where you're comin' from, man."

"I'm just making sure she was locked in when you got here."

"Didn't I say she was?"

"And you checked the apartment? There wasn't anybody else here?"

"Not unless they was hiding in the toaster."

It was a pretty clear suicide. The only thing problematic was his earlier visit. He'd sat on the knowledge of her death for over twelve hours without reporting it.

I thought for a moment. We were north of Sixtieth Street, so that put us in the Twentieth Precinct and out of Durkin's bailiwick. They'd close it as a suicide unless the medical evidence didn't match, in which case his earlier visit would come to light later on.

I said, "There's a few ways we could do it. We could say that you couldn't reach her all night and you got worried. You talked to me this afternoon and we came over here together. You had a key. You opened the door and we found her and called it in."

"All right."

"But the chain lock gets in the way. If you weren't here before, how did it get broken? If somebody else broke it, who was he and what was he doing here?"

"What if we say we broke it getting in?"

I shook my head. "That doesn't work. Suppose they come up with solid evidence that you were here last night. Then I'm caught swearing to a lie. I could lie for you to the extent of treating something you told me as confidential, but I'm not going to get nailed to a lie that cuts across the grain of the facts. No, I have to say the chain lock was broken when we got here."

"So it's been broken for weeks."

"Except the break's fresh. You can see where the screws came out of the wood. The one thing you don't want to do is get caught in that kind of a lie, where your story and the evidence wind up pointing in different directions. I'll tell you what I think you have to do."

"What's that?"

"Tell the truth. You came here, you kicked the door in, she was dead and you split. You drove around, tried to sort things out in your mind. And you wanted to reach me before you did anything, and I was hard to reach. Then you called me and we came here and called it in."

"That's the best way?"

"It looks like it to me."

"All because of that chain thing?"

"That's the most obvious loose end. But even without the chain lock you're better off telling the truth.

Look, Chance, you didn't kill her. She killed herself."

"So?"

"If you didn't kill her, the best thing you can do is tell the truth. If you're guilty, the best thing to do is say nothing, not a word. Call a lawyer and keep your mouth shut. But anytime you're innocent, just tell the truth. It's easier, it's simpler, and it saves trying to remember what you said before. Because I'll tell you one thing. Crooks lie all the time and cops know it and they hate it. And once they get hold of a lie they pull on it until something comes loose. You're looking to lie to save yourself a hassle, and it might work, it's an obvious suicide, you might get by with it, but if it doesn't work you're going to get ten times the hassle you're trying to avoid."

He thought about it, then sighed. "They're gonna ask why I didn't call right away."

"Why didn't you?"

" 'Cause I didn't know what to do, man. I didn't know whether to shit or go blind."

"Tell them that."

"Yeah, I guess."

"What did you do after you got out of here?"

"Last night? Like you said, I drove around some. Drove around the park a few times. Drove over the George Washington Bridge, up the Palisades Parkway. Like a Sunday drive, only a little early." He shook his head at the memory. "Came back, drove over to see Mary Lou. Let myself in, didn't have to bust no chain lock. She was sleepin'. I got in bed with her, woke her up, stayed with her a little. Then I went on home."

"To your house?"

"To my house. I'm not gonna tell 'em about my house."

"No need to. You got a little sleep at Mary Lou's."

"I never sleep when someone else is around. I can't. But they don't have to know that."

"No."

"I was at my house for awhile. Then I came on into town, lookin'

for you."

"What did you do at your house?"

"Slept some. A couple hours. I don't need a whole lot of sleep, but I got what I needed."

"Uh-huh."

"And I was just there, you know?" He walked over to the wall, took a staring mask from the nail where it hung. He started telling me about it, the tribe, their geographical location, the purpose of the mask. I didn't pay much attention. "Now I got fingerprints on it," he said. "Well, that's okay. You can tell 'em while we were waiting for them I took the mask off the wall and told you its history. I might as well tell the truth.

Wouldn't want to get caught in some nasty old little white lie." He smiled at the last phrase.

"Little black lie," he said. "Whyn't you make that call?"

It wasn't half the hassle it might have been. I didn't know either of the cops who came out from the Twentieth, but it couldn't have gone much smoother if I had. We answered questions on the scene and went back to the station house on West Eighty-second to give our statements.

The on-scene medical evidence all seemed to be consistent with what we'd reported. The cops were quick to point out that Chance should have called in as soon as he found the dead girl, but they didn't really jump on him for taking his time. Walking in on an unexpected corpse is a shock, even if you're a pimp and she's a whore, and this, after all, was New York, the city of the uninvolved, and what was remarkable was not that he'd called it in late but that he'd called it in at all.

I was at ease by the time we got to the station house. I'd only been anxious early on when it occurred to me that it might occur to them to frisk us. My coat was a small-time arsenal, still holding the gun and the two knives I'd taken from the kid in the alley. The knives were both illegal weapons. The gun was that and possibly more; God only knew what kind of a provenance it had. But we'd done nothing to rate a frisk, and, happily, we didn't get one.