I’m still trying to process that last bit when someone knocks on the door. I look through the little peephole. There’s a man well away from the door, a cop. Not the fat cop, the other one.
“Who is it?”
“Detective Ortega.” His expression doesn’t change and his tone remains calm. Like he knows exactly who he’s dealing with.
“What do you want?”
“Ms. Grand, would you please open the door. I’m not going to bite you. I promise.”
I open the door and he moves a little closer. He doesn’t have to shout now. “We met this morning as you arrived for your appointment with Dr. Halberstam. You agreed to identify your father’s body. You even insisted that I drive you to the morgue and back.” He glances at his watch. “Three o’clock, right on time.”
Eleni strikes again. How she could have made the appointment in the first place is beyond … No, that’s not right. Eleni wants to screw the cop and she hoped to be the one who answered the door. If so, they would have been a long time getting to the morgue. But Eleni’s not here and she didn’t leave a note and what the hell am I going to do now?
“What if say no?”
I expect him to argue that I’ve already committed myself. I expect a display of righteous indignation, but he simply shrugs. Only his eyes give him away and I imagine him hunched over his notebook later on, committing his evaluation to paper.
“If you say no, it’s no. We’ll have to find someone else.”
He waits, I wait, we both wait. Until I feel an unexpected impulse move me. I suddenly want to see Hank Grand’s body. I want to see him cold, the blood drained from his face. I want to look into his dead blank eyes and know he can never hurt us again.
“Yeah, alright,” I finally say. “I’ll go with you.”
Ortega opens the back door of his unmarked Ford and I slide onto the seat. I’m wearing loose jeans, a pullover jersey large enough to conceal my breasts and a pair of beat-up sneakers. Ortega has to know that I’m not the Carolyn Grand he met this morning, but he’s not giving his disappointment away. That alone rings a hundred warning bells.
I decide to keep my mouth shut. I won’t be the first to speak. Neither, apparently, will Ortega. Except for a few muttered curses—at a bus that could pull to the curb but stops in mid lane—he maintains a stony silence. Our route takes us over the Brooklyn Bridge, then north on Centre Street through the East Village into Midtown. There are lights on every block along with the usual obstacles. Double-parked trucks, Con Ed digs, new construction. I’m reacting like I’m in a cab watching the meter tick, growing more and more impatient with each delay.
I give up as we pass Houston Street, speaking for the first time. I’ve shifted in my seat so that I can watch him in the rearview mirror. I’m expecting something, maybe a triumphant smirk. But outside of raising his chin at the sound of my voice, Ortega’s expression doesn’t change.
“You spoke to Dr. Halberstam?” I intend to make a statement, but it emerges as a question. I remind myself that I’m Martha and I have to stand up for my siblings.
“Yes, briefly.”
“Did he tell you that we’re crazy?”
“You keep saying we, instead of I. Is there more than one of you?”
“Halberstam didn’t reveal our diagnosis?”
“Dr. Halberstam was a base we had to touch. But shrinks never give you much and neither did Halberstam.”
I know, instinctively, that Ortega’s playing me. He’s forcing me to carry the conversation, dragging the words out of my mouth. But I continue anyway, even though I feel like I’m about to gush. Not my way, not at all.
“He must have told you something.”
“Only that you spent a few days in the Kings County psych ward and you’re now in therapy.”
“What about his attitude?”
Ortega taps the steering wheel with a finger as he considers the question. “Ya know, the shrinks I’ve interviewed are mostly hard reads. They’ve got this look, very professional, how can I help you, goodbye. But Halberstam … I thought for a second that he seemed … I don’t know, proprietary, maybe. Or possessive.”
I let my weight drop to the seat back. Ortega nailed Halberstam, no question. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being manipulated. I want Ortega to know who we are. I want him to know that meeting Serena one day, Eleni the next, and me today isn’t about playing a game. It’s not about deception.
And maybe I’m begging, too.
“Our official diagnosis is dissociative identity disorder. There’s more than one of us.”
“That’s like multiple personalities.”
“Like that movie, The Three Faces of Eve.”
“I was thinking Split, actually. You know, where the multi kills his therapist.”
In a moment, we’re both laughing. Not for long and no deep guffaws. Not enough to even put me off my guard. Still, I’m starting to think I might actually like this guy. I watch him tap the steering wheel again, a tell for sure. He’s measuring his words before he speaks.
“Do you have like different names?” he asks.
“Look, detective, I just thought you should know what you’re dealing with. The rest of it is our business. But, yes, we have different names.”
“And you are?”
“Martha.”
“Okay, so tell me, Martha, where were you on the night your father was killed? Did you exist?”
I laugh again. I’ve been led to water and now I’ll drink. Good move, one that puts Halberstam to shame.
“I did exist and I was home all night. You want it step by step? After dinner, I set up the ironing board in front of the TV and went to work. That was around seven. Then I watched Modern Family and American Housewife while I ironed blouses, skirts, and pants. Sitcoms fascinate me, by the way. They’re so far removed from the lives we’ve lived, they seem like science fiction.”
I pause for a moment while he guides the car into a parking space reserved for cops on official business. His eyes are dark and hard to read inside the car, but I don’t sense hostility.
“At ten,” I tell him, “I switched to the local news. You know, a police shooting in the Bronx, video of a robbery in Brooklyn, weather, weather, weather. I wasn’t watching the clock, but I’d say I was in bed by ten thirty.” I shake my head, still trying to read Ortega. “For certain, I never opened the front door.”
“Well, if you did, we’ll definitely know. The security cameras in this building don’t work, but there’s a camera across the street that covers the entrance to your building. We won’t get our hands on it until this evening, maybe tomorrow morning.” He smiles. “No offense, by the way. Like me visiting your therapist, it’s just another base to cover. Plus, you knew where your father would be that night. You had the address of the Golden Inn Hotel lying on your little table. In plain view.”
Despite the last part, I brighten at the thought. Redemption, or at least the possibility. If we’re eliminated as suspects, there’s no new reason to commit us. “So, if you watch the tape and don’t find Carolyn Grand, that’s it. We’re clear?”
He shakes his head as he pops the locks and opens his door. “The fire escape in your kitchen leads to an alley separating your building from the one to the north. The alley runs all the way between your street, South Portland Avenue, and South Oxford Street to the east. There’s no security camera back there, just low gates at either end. They wouldn’t present much of a challenge to someone really determined.”
He doesn’t add “really motivated” because he doesn’t have to.