Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(80)

“No, I know—and thank you—but the number is stored in my cell.”

“Call directory assistance and get it.”

“I can’t . . . I don’t even know the guy’s last name.”

Jacky lifts an eyebrow. “Really? Do I smell a scandal?”

“No, you definitely do not. He’s just . . . he works for Dale.”

“So why isn’t Dale calling him?”

“Because I’m the one who worries about him.”

“Why are you worried?”

“He’s . . . you know, not all there.”

“What’s wrong with him? Is he mentally ill?”

“Brain damaged, from a head injury when he was about twelve or thirteen, I think. He and his mother used to visit the soup kitchen down in Brooklyn.”

“You’re still volunteering down there?” At Emily’s nod, her sister says, “Someday you’re going to go straight to heaven, you know that?”

“Well, let’s hope that someday is a long way off, because I’m not in any hurry,” she says with a wry smile.

“So tell me about your latest charity case.”

“His name is Jerry. I haven’t seen him since he moved to Manhattan after he started working for Dale.”

“What does he do for him?”

“He’s a handyman. You’d think that would be a problem, with his disability—when I asked Dale to hire him, I wasn’t thinking he’d actually be able to do much, but . . .”

“A mercy hiring. I’m sure Dale loved that idea.”

Emily shrugs. “He was humoring me. But it turns out Jerry works really hard, and he’s surprisingly good with his hands.”

“Not so surprising, really—his capabilities and limitations would just depend on which part of his brain was injured. What happened to him? Was it an accident?”

“Nothing like that. It was a really sad story. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a blessing he lost a chunk of his memory, because he has no idea what happened to him and I hope he never will. It’s funny—he would talk about things that happened a long time ago, when he was young, but not anything that happened leading up to the injury. Do you think that’ll ever come back?”

“His short-term memory? A lot of times it does, but it would depend on whether or not the loss was due to the physical brain trauma. Amnesia is a tricky thing. Anyway, if he doesn’t know how he got hurt, Em, how did you find out?”

“Diana, the director at the soup kitchen, told me about it and it broke my heart. Jerry was just a kid when it happened, poor thing . . .”

“When what happened?”

“His twin sister attacked him, smashed his head in with a cast-iron skillet.”





Chapter Thirteen

Looking up at the dark building looming over Hudson Street, Brandewyne exhales a puff of smoke and comments, “This place still looks deserted.”

“Maybe not,” Rocky tells her, noting that light spills from the fourth floor windows where Allison Taylor lives. “Let’s go.”

She stubs out her cigarette as he opens the door with the key they duplicated from the set they found in Kristina Haines’s purse—under the circumstances, the only way they could ensure that they’d be able to come and go freely at the crime scene.

They take the stairs up, pausing on every floor to walk swiftly up and down the hallway, searching for signs of life, knocking on doors in the hope of finding another tenant home. No one answers, though, and they hear not a sound, see not a bit of light filtering from beneath the closed doors, smell not a hint of cigarette smoke or food cooking.

Not until they reach the fourth floor, anyway. A faint but distinctly savory, homey smell wafts in the air.

Rocky sniffs. “Smell that?”

“Smell what?”

“Your nostrils must be shot from all that smoke, Brandewyne. Not good for a detective to have only four senses, you know that? You should quit. I don’t understand why you don’t.”

“Yeah, and you should lose weight. I don’t understand why—”

“All right, enough.”

“What do you smell?”

“Someone made dinner tonight.” Rocky’s mouth waters slightly; he hasn’t eaten since the bowl of diner chili that gave him agita hours ago.

When he called Ange from the car on the way over here, she said she’d made stuffed pork chops—his favorite—and was keeping a plate warm for him.

“It’s going to dry out,” he told her. “Better put it into the fridge. I don’t know when I’ll get home again, but I doubt it’ll be anytime soon.”

After he hung up, Brandewyne, whose husband recently left her with two teenaged kids to support, asked if Ange gets frustrated by his long hours.

“Nah. She understands.”

“You’re a lucky guy, Manzillo.”

“Don’t I know it.”

No matter what happens on the job, he’s going to eventually go home to his wife. That’s what keeps him going, even on days—nights—like this.

“Where do you want to go first?” Brandewyne asks now, looking from James MacKenna’s closed door to Allison Taylor’s.