BAKER COULDN’T BELIEVE HE was actually up. Not by much, merely three or four dollars, but it was better than being down a few bucks—or more. Gould’s phone rang, and Baker jumped.
“Hey, what’s with you tonight?” Martini asked. “Every time that phone rings you nearly pop outta your skin.”
Eyes darting between Martini and Malone, Baker said, “I, um—I keep worrying it’s my answering service calling about the kid getting sick again. She had such a high fever.”
“Oh. Well—sure,” Martini said.
“What was wrong with her?” Malone asked.
“Strep throat. Just a real bad case of strep.” But when Baker flashed a quick smile, the captain’s suspicions were only further aroused.
“Who’s in?” Gould called abruptly, anteing up. Then to his wife, who was freshening up the pretzels, “Who was that on the phone?”
“Just Aunt Sylvia asking if we’d be home Sunday. She wants to stop by and see the kids.”
“Julie’s Aunt Sylvia,” Gould said, “is one of the nicest ladies yous guys would ever wanna meet. Just loves to spend time with the kids—babysits whenever we ask.”
But Malone’s attention wasn’t so easily deflected. He would observe Baker keenly for the remainder of the night.
♦ ♦ ♦
WITH A FLICK OF his thumb, Baker got rid of the ashes hanging off the end of his cigarette; then he rolled the car window down another inch, allowing more of the bitterly cold air to rush in. At two-fifteen in the morning, he was more than ready to go to bed, eyes so dry they felt scratchy and raw. But a light was still shining in Micki’s apartment.
He’d worried about her the entire evening, nursing a paranoia that Malone knew what was going on—or had somehow managed to find out what he’d told Gould before anyone else had arrived. For Baker had shown up an hour early, just so he could spill his guts. About everything. “So you made a mistake. Shit happens,” Gould had said. But now, looking at the shimmering Manhattan skyline, Baker wondered why it always seemed to happen to Micki.
He got out of the car and locked it, grinding his cigarette into the frozen asphalt, gaze wandering in the direction of Bel, but down Micki’s side of the road—the defining border of the adjoining industrial section. Tonight the street appeared darker than usual, though the lighting in the area was poor at best. And while his own neighborhood was far from safe—what with the SROs, the drug pushers, and the clientele they attracted—this one had an air of desolation and danger all its own. Not far away, young male voices were shouting. A police siren blared in the distance, followed by that of an approaching ambulance. A squeal of tires, yelling and cursing, the sound of breaking glass … It was virtually the same scene every night. All night.
He hated this place.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN BAKER LET HIMSELF into Micki’s apartment, she barely blinked. Dressed in nightshirt and jeans, she was at the kitchen table, a vacant expression on her face.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
Staring at the sink across the room, she shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
“Can’t sleep?”
She shrugged again.
“Have you tried?”
She looked at him. “Jesus! Whatta y’want already?”
Nostrils flaring, he reared back, but then said, “I could really use some coffee. You mind if I make some?”
She gave him another shrug—“Whatever”—and returned to staring at the sink.
While he took off his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair, Baker decided that “whatever” had also found its way onto Micki’s hit parade of helpful phrases. He filled the pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. Then he put a heaping teaspoon of instant coffee into the polka-dot mug.
“Do you want some hot chocolate?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
His voice turned sharp. “You haven’t taken anything, have you?”
“No, sir.”
Arms folded across his chest, he leaned back against the counter. “You want to drive back with me to my apartment tonight?”
Finally looking at him again, she said, “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
The water boiled. He poured it into the mug, added a splash of milk, and sat down. They gazed at each other through the rising steam.
“You’re having a rough time, aren’t you,” he said.
She averted her eyes.
And Baker knew he wasn’t going home.
♦ ♦ ♦
WITH NOTHING BETWEEN HIMSELF and the hard surface of the floor but his folded-up jacket as a pillow, Baker stretched out on his back. Micki offered him her blanket to sleep on, saying the apartment was so warm she wouldn’t need it.
“But it’ll be on the floor,” he pointed out.
“It sometimes ends up there anyway.”
And though she was still sitting at the table, he turned out the light and lay down, dozing off, but only briefly. He awoke to find her staring at him. Propping himself up on one elbow, he asked, “What the hell are you doing? Watching me sleep?”
“Were you ever afraid you were going to die?”
“Is that what’s keeping you awake?”
There was little light in the room, their forms a deeper shadow in the dark. When she shook her head no, the movement was like a subtle ripple in an ocean of black.
“Well, we’re all going to die at some point,” he said.
“I don’t mean like that. I mean, were you ever afraid you were going to die right then?”
He sat up completely and crossed his legs. “No.”
“Even right before you shot that guy?”
“The day I start worrying about my mortality is the day I’d better get a desk job in the department—or find myself another line of work.”
“So you’re never afraid.”
“I didn’t say that. I’ve been scared shitless more times than I care to remember. Truth is, you need a healthy dose of fear or you get careless, and that’s when you—or your partner—can get hurt. Or even killed. It’s”—he paused—“it’s hard to explain, but no matter how dangerous it gets, once I’m in the middle of what’s going down, I’m not thinking anymore about what could happen to me. It’s like I’m at peace with it. My mind’s completely focused on whatever it is I have to do and nothing else.”
She pushed the saucer he used as an ashtray a couple of inches across the table, the china gently scraping against the Formica.
“You seem pretty fearless yourself sometimes,” he said.
“That’s ’cause I got nothing to lose.”
“That’s not too good, Micki.”
She shrugged.
Outside, siren off, a police vehicle drove by, its light flashing red through the curtains.
“What’s really bothering you?” he asked.
Covered in the darkness of the night’s final hours, the room felt strangely safe. “I need to know what happened to me. I want my memory back. I used to think I didn’t care—but I do. You can’t imagine what’s it’s like to know you know something but can’t get at it no matter how hard you try.”
“You still don’t remember anything? Nothing at all?”
“No, and I’m thinking maybe I never will. But then, y’know, sometimes I’m afraid of what it might be.”
“Maybe that’s why it’s better this way.”
“I have a right to know!”
They heard another car drive by. And then another. In a small voice, she asked, “How come nobody’s come looking for me?”
He felt like his heart was being wrenched right out of his chest. “Why don’t you lie down,” he said. “You need to sleep.”
She finally got into bed and drifted off.
But Baker found himself staring up at the ceiling for a long, long time.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN BAKER DROPPED IN at the precinct house the next day, he searched through the new missing-persons files from the past few months. But no description resembled Micki’s—mainly because the dates of disappearance were too recent. And without any new leads to go on, he could spend every waking minute of every day and still not come up with anything. In fact, after her arrest, the only thing ascertained was that it appeared she’d never been in the system before. That alone had been a huge undertaking, detectives sifting through mug shots and old case files from anywhere in the city or its environs. They’d also done the usual screening of local high school yearbooks. There seemed little point in going down those roads again.
Before he headed out, Baker stopped by Malone’s office and considered himself lucky that the captain wasn’t in. He left a note, then checked around for Gould, but was told he was out on a case. When he returned to his apartment, he thought about calling Cynthia, but decided that if he appeared too pushy, she might break off what little contact they had.
And so, with nothing specific to take up his time, he found himself squandering most of it smoking cigarettes, drinking whiskey, watching vapid TV, and wallowing in a shallow pool of self-pity. And Tuesday was New Year’s Eve. As if he weren’t depressed enough.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI SETTLED INTO A routine of work, workouts, and long bouts of daytime sleeping. She exercised religiously, sometimes to exhaustion just to get a mild high. Baker checked in on her several times, but didn’t stay over again—and her nighttime sleep reverted back to the restless disaster it had always been.
She refused to think about it.
♦ ♦ ♦
MONDAY, BAKER PULLED HIMSELF together for the few hours of work he had on the school’s holiday schedule. On his way back to Manhattan, he stopped by Micki’s, then went to a downtown firing range to shoot off a few rounds. He did an intense session at the gym; took a long, hot shower; ate an oversized bowl of spaghetti; and then finally picked up the phone and dialed.
Her voice was bright. “Hello?”
“Hi, Cyn.”
“Jim!”
“How’s everything?”
“Um—okay—I guess … And you?”
“I take it you have plans for tomorrow night?”
“Mark and I are going to a party in Soho.”
Mark. Mr. LA. “Any chance we could get together? Maybe for dinner next week?”
“I—uh—I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“C’mon, Cyn, it’s just dinner. What’s the harm?”
There was a long pause. “It’s over, Jim. Can’t you accept that?”
His heart was ripping apart so badly he was sure the jagged-edged pieces would never fit together again. “So—so you don’t feel anything for me anymore? Nothing?”
“I don’t want to see you because I do still have feelings. I’d be reopening wounds that haven’t even begun to heal. And it wouldn’t be right. I’d feel like I was cheating on Mark.”
Cheating on Mark! And yet Cynthia’s words had exactly the opposite effect of what she’d intended. “I’m only asking,” he said, “for a couple of hours of your time. It would mean a lot to me.”
There was a fleeting burst of static.
She sighed. “All right. But this is against my better judgment, James Baker. Don’t make me regret this.”
♦ ♦ ♦
IT WAS ALMOST NOON when—head throbbing, mouth dry—Baker opened his eyes and failed to recognize his surroundings. In the ribbon of light that emanated from the small space between the closed curtains and the window, tiny dust particles were darting and bobbing. Weightless. Unencumbered. Baker sat up and hung his heavy head in his hands, the previous night’s festivities coming back in only little bits and pieces.
Sam Tierney’s New Year’s Eve party for “swinging singles” had been crowded and loud with the boisterous overcompensation of a lot of people trying to hide their loneliness. Having gotten sufficiently drunk, Baker had succumbed to the advances of a somewhat attractive woman he would otherwise have avoided because, like many of the women invited, she had a thing for cops. It appeared he’d followed her back to her apartment—there was a radio on somewhere and the aroma of perking coffee—but he wasn’t sure. After he’d left Tierney’s, he must’ve blacked out.
The woman entered the bedroom, smiling. “Hi there!” She opened the curtains halfway and saw he was already getting dressed. “Don’t you want to take a shower first?” she asked.
In the light of day, the woman didn’t look quite the same, though she’d clearly taken great pains to reapply her make-up. Tall and nicely shaped, her body was in a youthfully short skirt and a cable-knit sweater sporting a large cowl neck. Her lopsided smile, in a bright coral shade of lipstick, was either endearing or annoying; he couldn’t decide which. But worst of all, he had no idea what her name was.
“I really need to get home,” he said.
Her smile faded. “I thought we could—y’know—maybe spend some time together today.”
God, he hated this. What was he thinking last night? Jesus, he couldn’t even remember having sex with her. After a glance around the room—which was wallpapered in large, psychedelic-looking flowers to compliment the thick shag carpet in three different shades of pink—he spotted his boots beneath a vanity table littered with cosmetics and perfume bottles. He retrieved them and sat on the bed to put them on. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’ve got some things I have to take care of.” Making a point of looking at his watch, he added, “And I’m very late.”
She played with the lucite ring on her finger. “Yeah—well—that’s okay.”
He stood up and threw on his jacket. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.
She tugged at the short blonde hair by her ear, then threw up her hands with a forced laugh. “Hey, it was just one of those things.” And though she was blinking back tears, she was still trying to smile when she said, “So—so happy New Year.”
He gently touched her hair, caressed her cheek, and kissed her. “You take care of yourself.” Then he walked through the apartment and let himself out. Once he was in the hallway, he was certain he heard muffled sobs. Or maybe it was just his imagination. Either way, he felt like shit.
♦ ♦ ♦
ALONE IN THE ELEVATOR, an old model with a pullout door and metal gate, Baker pressed the button and waited. With a nauseating lurch, it began its downward journey, motor whining and whirring as though transporting him took an enormous amount of effort. Just as it was about to reach the lobby, he frantically pulled out his wallet, then heaved a huge sigh of relief.
The condom was gone.
♦ ♦ ♦
UNDER THE PALEST OF blue skies, Baker hailed a checkered cab to drive him home from Chelsea. Though its suspension was totally shot, the taxi sped over the road, every bump and pothole a source of torture for both his head and his bladder. God help me, he thought, if Micki called after I left the party. He’d given the answering service Tierney’s number but not the woman’s. At least, he didn’t remember giving them the woman’s. But when he got home, he called his service to find no messages waiting. He used the bathroom, took three aspirin, drank half a quart of orange juice straight from the carton, and crawled back into bed.