The first thing I do when I wake up is exchange the bikini panties and short nightgown for a pair of boxers emblazoned with prancing horses, well-worn jeans, and a Harvard University sweatshirt, sleeveless. I feel good, too good, and I wonder what went on last night, what adventure left the body fully charged. I get the coffee going, then head for the shower. A waste of time as it turns out. The body’s been cleaned, scrubbed, and deodorized. The towel on the rack is damp, the washcloth draped over the faucet in the tub is still wet.
Was Eleni off on one of her adventures last night? The thought inspires a series of anatomically incorrect images and I’m already thinking about where I want to go this morning. I walk to the windows, looking for Hank Grand. I’m hoping to encounter our dad somewhere along the line. If I do, I’ll find an excuse to cut the prick. That’ll force the cops to take action whether they like it or not.
But there’s no sign of him and I carry a mug of coffee to our one comfortable chair, turn on the TV, and jump from NY1 to ESPN. I’m a Yankee fan, and I want to catch up.
I’m just settling in when a knock at the front door brings me to full attention. I glance at the clock: 9:45.
“Who is it?”
“Police. Open the door, please.”
I bring my eye to the peephole and find two men standing back about four feet. The short one looks annoyed, the taller one indifferent. Neither looks like Hank Grand.
“Show me some ID?”
That draws a scowl as the short one reaches into a back pocket. He’s wearing a limp white shirt embellished with oval patches of sweat that extend from his armpits to the top of his swelling gut.
“Detective Greco.” He flips a billfold open to reveal the gold badge carried by New York detectives. “Open the door, please.”
I don’t have a choice here and I know it. But I also want to know why they’re here. More contact with the police? After Eleni’s escapade? Yeah, that’ll work.
I slide the chain off the hook, flip the lock and open the door. The second cop steps toward me. He’s holding up his own badge, his expression soft, almost regretful.
“Detective Ortega, may we come in? It’s about your father.”
He glides past me without waiting for an answer, his fat partner following. Inside, they position themselves about five feet apart.
“You’re Carolyn Grand, right?” the short one asks.
“Right.”
He takes out a little notebook. “You’ve reported seeing your father since he was paroled. Twice, I think.” He pauses to look up at me, like I’m supposed to answer some question he didn’t ask. As he waits, his partner’s dark eyes crisscross our apartment.
“And you’re doing what?” I finally ask. “Following up?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. Can you tell me when was the last time you saw your father?”
In fact, I don’t know, not for sure. I’ve been absent for the last three days and have no idea what went on. Still, I have to guess, that or explain the whole multi business and admit that Carolyn Grand is psychotic. “A couple of days ago.”
“Can you tell me under what circumstances?”
The tall cop slides away, toward our little table, the one covered with the memos we’ve been writing each other. I’m instantly pissed off, instantly wary. Whatever the fuckers want, it’s far from routine.
“Hey, Detective Ortega, where are you going? I didn’t—”
Greco touches my arm and I instinctively turn back to him. “We’re here about your father, Ms. Grand. I’m sorry for your loss, but I have to tell you that your father is dead.”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“I’m telling you that your father is deceased.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch the second cop, Ortega, standing over the table, reading the memos without picking them up. I should complain, but I can’t tear myself away from Detective Greco.
“How?” I ask. “How did he die?”
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but he was murdered.”
Now it falls into place, their attitude, Ortega’s wandering, the bullshit. In order to find us, they must have spoken to Hank Grand’s parole officer. He would have reported the encounters and the nature of the crime that put Hank Grand in prison for twenty-seven years.
“You have to leave,” I said.
“Don’t you want us to find out who killed your father?”
“Actually, I don’t give a flying fuck. But even if I did, I know nothing about my father’s day-to-day life. I don’t know who he saw or what he did. What I do know, on the other hand, is that your partner is searching my apartment without a fucking warrant. So …”
Clear as a bell, I hear Martha’s voice in my ear. Call the lawyer, she tells me. The number’s on the fridge.
As it turns out, I don’t have to. I tell Ortega that I’m about to phone my lawyer, and he returns to his partner’s side. Ortega’s wearing a jacket but still looks cooler than Greco, who wipes his forehead with a damp handkerchief.
“Take my card, Ms. Grand,” Ortega says. “If you can think of anything that might help, I’d appreciate a call. My cell number’s on the back.” He hands me his card and smiles. “Oh, before we go, one more thing. Please tell us where you were between nine o’clock last night and two this morning? For the record.”
I haven’t any idea, not even a memory of a memory. But again, I know I have to answer. “Home, detective. Home alone.”
I let the two cops out, then almost collapse as the implications sink in. Another encounter with the cops, the cops obviously including us in their list of suspects, our lives already under the scrutiny of the courts. I walk over to our miniscule dining table and start to examine the memos. Most of them I’ve seen, all except for an unfolded sheet of yellow paper, maybe six inches square. Across the middle, in block letters: 344 HUNTINGTON STREET.RM. 307.
Shit.