The Red Hunter(10)



“Police have no leads in the home invasion death of an elderly man,” said the pert blonde NY 1 News reporter from outside an apartment building.

I pretended not to be listening, fixed his blanket, went to refill his water jug.

“John Martin Didion lived alone. According to the building super Anthony Ruiz, he was quiet and polite, had lived in the building for several years, a rent-controlled unit grandfathered to him by his elderly mother, who he cared for until she died.”

“He kept to himself, you know. Never any trouble,” said the middle-aged Latino man, wringing his hands self-consciously and staring off camera. “I don’t get this city. Who would do such a thing?”

The newscast cut to grainy footage. It took me a second to realize it was the front door of Didion’s building. He limps up to the doorway as a slender hooded figure approaches from behind, then the two disappear through the door.

“Footage captured from a convenience store security camera across the street shows Mr. Didion being accosted at the doorway. Inside his apartment, he was stabbed once through the heart. His body was discovered by a neighbor, concerned that the door was ajar.”

The camera cut back to the young reporter. Her hair blew prettily in the breeze; her makeup was perfect. She looked like a doll, something you would dress up and put in a sports car. She’d have a perfect plastic boyfriend, a dream house with a pool.

“Sloppy,” said Paul. He drew in deeply through the nasal cannula. “You know there are eyes everywhere in this city.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. I tucked the blanket around him and gave him a kiss on the head. “You’re an old man. Stop making up stories.”

My pulse was racing, though. To see myself like that; it was odd. An out-of-body experience. And, yes, very, very careless. I’d done my recon. How could I have missed that camera?

“Police continue their investigation and ask that anyone with information about the hooded figure in the doorway come forward,” the plastic newscaster continued.

Shit.

He closed his eyes, shook his head. He leaned his head back, arms slack at his side, his chest rising and falling, that rasping like he was sipping air through a tiny straw. Sometimes he just fell asleep like that and slept for hours exhausted from the effort of just being alive. I moved toward the door looking back at him. Before I closed it completely, he caught my eyes, and I heard him whisper:

“Be more careful.”

I finished the cooking, then cleaned up, left a note for Betsy about what to do for his dinner. When I checked on him again, he was sleeping. I hoped he’d stay asleep until Betsy came. I’d feel better if he’d have twenty-four-hour care, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I’m not an invalid. I can take care of myself. This was increasingly untrue. But it’s hard to argue with the people who used to give you piggyback rides.

? ? ?

IN ADDITION TO MY ILLUSTRIOUS waitressing career, I was also a serial cat sitter, plant waterer, house watcher. For the last month and for possibly the next six, I had stayed in a loft on Greenwich and Vestry. The kind of place where about 1 percent of the population, less, might ever be able to consider living. I headed there after leaving Paul’s East Village walk-up.

The doorman in the cool museum of a lobby acknowledged me with the slight nod reserved for the help—nannies, housekeepers, cooks, personal trainers, massage therapists, cat sitters. His dark, lidded eyes slid past me, not lingering, as I drifted over marble and past snow-white walls adorned with towering modern art oils in shining white frames. I knew his name, Bruno—tight black curls and a nasty scar on his neck. He had bulk, standing nearly six feet, and edge. In a fight, he’d get dirty. I bet he carried a knife, which is a highly effective weapon if you have nerve, aren’t afraid to get in close.

On a console table in the elevator lobby, a towering vase of white calla lilies offered a funereal odor, filling the space, tickling my sinuses. The elevator opened, and a willowy blonde dressed in a draping, expensive white fabric brushed past me without seeing, staring at the enormous smartphone in her hand.

“Have a good day, Miss Dykstra,” I heard the doorman say, his voice bright and obsequious. I bet his eyes lingered on her—the spun gold of her hair, the elegant sway of her body.

He rushed to open the door for her. From where I stood, I didn’t even see her acknowledge him with an upward glance from her phone. He was invisible to most people, as well. He just didn’t realize it. Maybe somewhere, to someone, he mattered. But not here.

Inside the elevator, it was quiet and mercifully dim, no mirrors. I hated elevator mirrors, standing in a box, staring at myself. I avoided mirrors as a general rule, turned away from my reflection. I stepped into the private hallway that the owner had kept spare and undecorated and walked down to the door at the end.

Tiger greeted me as I stepped inside. He was more like a dog-cat, curious, always getting into trouble by tipping plants and tearing up throw pillows, sloppily affectionate, a big eater. At night, he slept on the pillow beside me in the gigantic king bed in the gigantic white room—white walls, white dresser, white down comforter, white sheets, white Eames chair in the corner—with views of downtown.

As usual, Tiger had scattered food all over the floor in the kitchen.

“Bad kitty,” I said mildly, petting him as he wound himself in furry figure eights around my ankles.

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