Sixteen

Finally knowing this mystery man’s real name would be a huge help in finding out more about him. But there was one thing that didn’t make sense to me. I addressed Ms. Alvarez again—

“If he was still wearing a hospital wristband, why wasn’t he in the hospital? Did he escape?”

“Escape?” She laughed. “He probably just signed himself out and didn’t bother to take off the band.”

“He signed himself out?” I said. “Is that even possible after a complete mental meltdown?”

“It is,” Mike interrupted. “Only a judge can order detention at a psych unit. It usually happens when that person is charged with a crime or becomes a danger to themselves or others.”

“If you want to know more about Mr. Van Dyne and his condition,” Ms. Alvarez said, “you should talk to my partner. He helped the crew in the other ambulance perform triage.”

She pointed to the dumpster where Mr. Scrib was attacked. Two uniformed officers and a paramedic were chatting. Even from this distance the splash of blood staining the side of the dumpster was visible in the stark glaring light.

“I’ll talk with the paramedic for you,” Mike told me. “You stay here and get that arm bandaged.”

I watched the group’s demeanor switch from informal to all business as Lieutenant Quinn approached. One of the uniforms touched the bill of his cap. Quinn nodded back.

As he buttonholed the paramedic, the two officers departed. They were already heading for their squad car.

“Where are you going?” I called. “Don’t you want my statement?”

The officers approached me, and I explained why I wasn’t on the scene when they arrived.

“I heard the argument in the back alley before Mr. Scrib was attacked. Then I chased his attacker…”

Officers Langley and Demetrios took down my full statement and description of the perp (as limited as it was), thanked me, and were about to depart when I pressed—

“There will be an investigation, won’t there? I’m sure I can help the detectives who are assigned.”

“That’s not our call,” Demetrios replied, glancing away.

“Honestly, Ms. Cosi,” Langley said in a kind of verbal cop shrug, “the poor guy was probably looking for food or a warm place to sleep when another homeless guy attacked him. We see it all the time…”

Langley’s attitude didn’t surprise me. In a big, bad city like New York, a simple assault on a man like Mr. Scrib could very well fall into a departmental black hole. The officers knew that. I knew it, too. But I also believed this wasn’t as simple or random an assault as they assumed it was.

“Listen,” I said, “Mr. Scrib…I mean Mr. Van Dyne isn’t homeless. At least, I don’t think he is, and I’m sure he wasn’t scrounging for food.”

Demetrios shook his head. “Sorry to disagree, Ms. Cosi, but someone ripped into those trash bags, whether it was your friend or the man who attacked him. You can see for yourself. There’s garbage all over the place.”

“Mr. Scrib left some property here,” I explained. “I believe that’s what he came back looking for.”

“And what would that property be?” Langley asked. “Must be pretty valuable.”

“It’s a notebook,” I said.

Demetrios glanced skeptically at his partner. “A notebook?”

“Not much value in a notebook, Ms. Cosi,” Langley informed me, as if I needed advice on what not to take to an Antiques Roadshow.

“I realize a notebook in itself has little value,” I said, “but it was important to him. And I think—”

“All finished,” Ms. Alvarez declared.

I’d almost forgotten about my injury. While I was speaking with the officer, the earnest EMT had mummified my arm with gauze from wrist to elbow.

“You have some nasty scrapes,” she announced. “Nothing deep, but you’ve got to keep the area clean to prevent infection.”

I thanked her, assured her I’d take care of it, and turned back to the officers. Both were already gone, and in an awful hurry. The pair either had another call—or wanted one. The police cruiser was already backing out of the alleyway. As it drove off, it took half the light with it.

Meanwhile, Mike was still chatting up the paramedic.

I was about to join them when I spied something even more worrisome—Madame’s silhouette, framed by the light of the open back door. Heedless of the cold and the shattered light at her feet, she stared into the alley. Black blood stained her beautiful gown. She didn’t even acknowledge my presence until I touched her arm.

“Madame, are you okay?”

Her focus returned. “I’m fine, Clare. But when I tried to help that poor man, I saw his blood on the ground and the dumpster—”

“Mike is speaking with one of the paramedics now—”

Madame waved me off. “That’s not what I mean. When I saw that blood, I remembered something. Something important. Something you must know if you’re determined to go through with your plan.”

“Plan? What plan?”

“To restart the Writer’s Block Lounge.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

“All right, then,” I said. “Let’s go inside and talk.”