Poison

CHAPTER 11

A police car was angled into the curb in front of Nelson Riley's building when Marilyn got there at ten o'clock on Saturday morning. She thought Uh-oh, and then hesitated a moment on the sidewalk outside, and then took a deep breath and went into the building.

During the week, a black man ran the elevator for the hat factory that still occupied the sixth floor of the building. The owners of the factory were not pleased that Riley had painted a huge bloated nude on the fourth-floor elevator doors, a lady who got divided in half—smack between the breasts and down through the belly button and crotch—whenever the doors were open. The hat factory was closed on Saturdays and Sundays, and the elevator was self-service on those days. This meant that you had to operate all by yourself the ancient lever-type, drum-contained mechanism that ran the elevator.

Marilyn had always had difficulty with it; she never seemed able to stop the elevator exactly on the mark identifying the fourth floor. She yanked the lever back and forth now, and finally maneuvered the floor of the car level with the fourth-floor corridor. She opened the inside gate, struggled the heavy nude-painted doors open, closed the gate and the doors behind her because that was what you had to do when the elevator was on self-service, and then walked down the corridor to Riley's loft.

The door to the loft was open.

Inside, she could see two uniformed policemen, one of them writing on a pad, the other one standing with his hands on his hips, listening. Riley was telling them he was certain someone had broken into the loft the night before.

"The minute they yank police protection, somebody breaks in," he said.

"What do you mean, police protection?" the cop with the pad asked.

"I've had a cop here with me twenty-four hours a day," Riley said.

"What for?"

"They felt I needed protection."

"Who felt?"

"The detectives investigating a case uptown."

"Where uptown?"

"The Eighty-seventh Precinct."

The cop with his hands on his hips said, "What kind of case?"

"A murder case," Riley said. "Hi, Marilyn, come on in."

"You hear this, Frank?" the cop with the pad said.

"I hear it, Charlie," the other cop said.

"Who's this?" Frank said, as Marilyn walked to where they were standing in the loft's work area.

"Friend of mine," Riley said, and kissed her on the cheek.

"What makes you think somebody broke in here?" Charlie asked.

"The window there in the living area was forced open," Riley said. "Something, huh?" he said to Marilyn.

The cops moved into the living area. Riley and Marilyn followed them.

"You live here, that it?" Frank asked.

"I live here and I work here," Riley said.

"What kind of work you do?" Charlie asked.

"I'm a painter."

"You are?" Frank said. "Let me have your card, okay? My brother-in-law needs his house painted."

"I paint pictures," Riley said. "The ones out there." He indicated with a gesture of his head the paintings lining the walls of the loft.

"You done those, huh?" Frank said.

"Yes."

Frank looked past him and then nodded non-commitally.

"So this is where you sleep, huh?" Charlie said. "This waterbed here?"

"Yes."

"How are they, these waterbeds?"

"Fine," Riley said. "Take a look at the window, you can see where it was forced."

Charlie moved to the window near the foot of the bed. He studied it carefully. Frank peered over his shoulder. Behind their backs, Marilyn rolled her eyes.

"These marks here, you mean?" Charlie said.

"Yes."

"They weren't here before?"

"No."

"They're new, huh?"

"Yes."

"What do you think, Frank?"

"Coulda been jimmied," Frank said, and shrugged.

"Anything missing?" Charlie said.

"No, I don't think so."

"So why'd you call us?" Frank said.

"If somebody broke in here, that's a reason to call the police, isn't it?"

"Why would somebody break in here and not take anything?" Charlie said.

"I don't see nothing worth taking," Frank said, looking around the living area.

"Mr. Riley gets upward of five thousand dollars a canvas," Marilyn said, bristling.

"A what?" Charlie said.

"A painting."

"No kidding?" Frank said. He looked into the loft's work area again, reappraising the paintings. "For those, huh?" he said.

"Any of these valuable paintings missing?" Charlie asked, stressing the word "valuable" so that it conveyed vast disbelief.

"No."

"So nothing's missing, right?"

"No, but…"

"So why'd you call us?"

"I called you because two people were murdered…"

"But not in this precinct, right?"

"What's that got…?"

"You shoulda called the Eight-Seven," Charlie said. "They the ones working the homicides, they the ones you shoulda called."

"Thanks a lot," Riley said.

"Don't mention it," Charlie said. "I write up my report, I'll mention the Eight-Seven is already on this."

"You oughta put bars on that window," Frank said. "Fire escape out there, all these paintings the lady says are valuable…" He shrugged skeptically. "You get yourself bars on that window so nobody can get in."

"How do I get out if there's a fire?" Riley said.

"You gotta call the Fire Department," Charlie said.

"We done here?" Frank said.

"We're done here," Charlie said, and snapped his pad shut.

Riley sighed.

"See you," Charlie said, and both cops walked out.

The moment they were gone, Riley said, "The city's fucking finest, huh?"

"You should see the cops in Houston," she said.

"Somebody breaks in here, they stand around…"

"Are you sure somebody broke in?"

"Those marks weren't on the window when I went out last night."

"Maybe you ought to call…"

"What for? So they can tell me again why they can't spare any cops here? You should've heard them. The party line. Lots of crime in this city, men urgently needed elsewhere, sorry we can't continue the surveillance… that's a police word, surveillance. Surveillance of the premises and the subject. Those are police words, too. These are the premises and I'm the subject. Only I'm not a subject anymore, I'm back to being a possible target!"

Marilyn said nothing.

"So come give me a hug," he said, and grinned, and opened his arms wide.

"There's something we've got to talk about," Marilyn said.

"Later," Riley said. "Would you like a drink?"

"No, thanks."

"I've got a good bottle of scotch on the shelf there. Twelve years old."

"Not now, thanks."

"You look terrific, did I tell you you look terrific?"

"Thank you."

She was wearing a blue pleated skirt, pantyhose of the same color, high-heeled blue pumps, a shoulder bag to match, a pale blue blouse with a Peter Pan collar, and a navy blue cardigan sweater. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a pony tail, held there with a barrette the color of the blouse.

"You really look terrific."

"Thank you."

"Something wrong?"

"No, no."

"Cops been hassling you?"

"Lots of questions, but not what I'd call hassling."

"Sure you don't want a drink?"

"Positive."

"How about some coffee?"

"I'll make some," she said.

"All I've got is instant."

"I know."

She walked familiarly to the cabinet under the sink, took out a kettle, and began filling it with water.

"You mind if I tidy up a bit out here?" he asked. "I quit late last night, and rushed out leaving a mess. I like to have things neat on the weekend. You never know who may drop in."

Marilyn carried the kettle to the hot plate, and turned it on. Riley walked into the loft's work area and picked up a broom.

"I've been meaning to call you," he said.

"I'm glad you didn't," she said, and went to the wall cupboard, and took two cups and a jar of instant coffee from it.

"How come?" he said. "You been busy?"

"Very."

She spooned instant coffee into the cups, and then looked at the kettle.

"Me, too," he said. "Which is why I didn't call, actually. You see this big one here?"

She walked into the work area.

"Recognize it?"

"Snowflake," she said.

"I had a hell of a time getting that white overlay," he said. "Looks like it's really snowing, though, doesn't it?"

"Regular blizzard," she said.

"Yeah," he said, grinning proudly. "Do you like it?"

"Yes."

"That's you there in the yellow parka."

"My parka isn't…"

"I know." He kept looking at the painting, grinning. "You really like it?" he asked.

"Yes. Very much."

She walked back into the other part of the loft, checked the kettle again.

"Watched pot," he said. "Shit, look at how I left these brushes!"

He began cleaning the brushes, sitting on a stool at his work table, his back to her. When he turned to look at her again, she was at the shelf beyond the divider-wall, the bottle of scotch in her hands.

"Twelve years old," he said. "Gift from the gallery owner."

She yanked the cork, sniffed at the lip of the bottle, wrinkled her nose.

"Sure you don't want some?"

"Too early for me. Anyway, I hate scotch."

He kept dipping brushes into turpentine, working the bristles.

"Amateur stunt," he said. "Leaving brushes overnight."

He kept working, his back to her. She was silent for a long time. He looked up when the kettle whistled.

"Coffee's ready," she said.

"There's milk in the fridge," he said. "Sugar in the…"

"I take it black," she said.

"Right, I should know that by now."

She carried the cups to where he was sitting at the work table, and took the stool opposite him. There was the smell of turpentine. She fished into her shoulder bag, took out a package of cigarettes and a gold monogrammed lighter. She thumbed the lighter into flame, held it to the tip of the cigarette, let out a stream of smoke. She placed the package of cigarettes on the table, arranged the lighter neatly on top of them. He watched her hands. She looked up suddenly.

"Nelson," she said, "I want to end it."

He looked at her.

"Okay?" she said.

"What's the matter?"

"Let's just call it a day, okay?" she said.

"No, what is it? You mad I didn't call? I didn't think that kind of bullshit was important to our…"

"It's not that."

"Then what?"

"I've met someone."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, what do you think I mean, Nelson? I mean I'm involved with someone."

"Involved?"

"Yes, involved."

"You?"

"I don't see why that should…"

"I mean, you? Involved? I thought involvement…"

"I thought so, too."

"I mean, I thought commitment . . ."

"I've changed my mind, okay?"

"Look, don't get so damn impatient, okay? I mean, this is what you might call a bit of a shock, you know? You're the one who kept telling me what we had together was enough, isn't that what you kept telling me? The talking, the laughing, the sharing? Isn't that what you kept telling me, Marilyn?"

"It's what I said, yes."

"So all of a sudden…"

"Yes, all of a sudden."

"Who? One of these other guys you've been seeing?"

"No."

"Then who?"

"It doesn't matter who."

"It matters to me. Who's the guy?"

"His name is Hal Willis."

"Who?"

"Hal…"

"The cop? The one who was here asking me questions? You've got to be kidding."

"I'm not kidding, Nelson."

"I mean, there's no accounting for taste, but Jesus, Marilyn…"

"I said I wasn't kidding. Drop it, okay?"

The room went silent.

"Sure," he said.

The silence lengthened.

"So that's it, huh?" he said.

"That's it."

"Six, seven months of…"

"Nelson, we were good friends. Let's end it as good friends, okay?"

"Sure," he said.

"Okay?"

"Sure." He grinned suddenly. "Want to give the waterbed a last shot?"

"I don't think so," she said.

"Make a few waves?" he said, still grinning.

She smiled, rose, slung her shoulder bag, came around the work table, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Nelson…" she said. "Goodbye."

She looked at him a moment, seemed about to say something more, then simply shook her head, and walked out of the loft.

He listened to her high heels clicking along the corridor outside. He heard the elevator grinding its way up the shaft. He heard the big doors lumbering open. And then the sound of the elevator again, fading, fading.

And then there was only silence and the smell of turpentine.

Well, terrific, he thought.

Great way to start the weekend.

Guy breaks in last night, Marilyn breaks in this morning. Might as well have broken in, the news she brought. Sure, let's have some coffee, Nelson, and oh by the way I want to end it. Marilyn Hollis involved? Will wonders never! With a cop, no less. With a cop no bigger than my thumb.

He felt like crying.

Come on, he thought, this city is full of women. Swarm all over me at gallery openings, ooo, what lovely work. But none of them Marilyn, oh, what a lovely piece of work was Marilyn.

Past tense already.

Was.

Just like that.

Nelson, I want to end it.

Nelson… goodbye.

Yo te adoro, she'd told him once, the waterbed rippling beneath them, yo te adoro, I adore you in Spanish, which she'd picked up in South America. Spoke Spanish like a native, yo te adoro. Didn't mean it seriously, didn't mean she really adored him, really loved him, meant it within her own definition of their relationship, no commitments, no involvement, no strings.

He wondered now how deep his own involvement had been.

Out of his life for only ten minutes, and he felt like throwing himself out the window.

Yo te adoro.

Murmuring the words around his cock, talk about deep.

Come on, he thought, there are other women.

He rose from where he'd been sitting at the work table, the table stinking of turpentine, his hands stinking of turpentine, and he went into the living area, what she used to call the nook, their nook, nookie in the nook, he'd never had a woman like Marilyn in his life, never. He turned on the water tap, washed his hands over the sink, dried them on a dish towel.

He looked at the kitchen clock.

Twenty minutes to eleven.

Too early for a man to start drowning his sorrow?

Hell it was.

He went to the shelf near the bed, took down the bottle of scotch and uncorked it. He took a glass from the cabinet, and poured three fingers into it. He raised the glass in a toast.

"Marilyn," he said out loud, "I think I was in love with you."

He tilted the glass to his mouth and took a deep swallow.

The clock on the kitchen wall read eighteen minutes to eleven.

His first reaction was an automatic one.

He spit out the vile-tasting scotch at once, tried to spit it out, but most of it had already gone down his throat and only a thin, brown, residual spray spattered onto the refrigerator door.

He felt fire burning the inside of his mouth, fire burning his throat and his insides. He clutched for his throat, dropping the glass, the glass shattering in a hundred brilliant shards on the kitchen floor, turned toward the sink, water, grabbed for another glass on the drain board, reached for the water tap, and turned it open, his mouth filling with saliva. He spit into the sink, trying to clear his throat of whatever was burning it, burning his stomach now, saliva filling his mouth again, he spit again, and suddenly felt nauseous. He dropped the glass into the sink. It bounced but it did not break, he thought it remarkable that the glass didn't break and then he began vomiting into the sink, the stream of water splashing into the vomit as it spewed from his mouth, and clutched for his stomach when a sharp pain knifed his abdomen, causing him to bend over almost double.

He reeled away from the sink.

The phone.

A doctor.

He felt faint all at once. He fell forward onto the waterbed, the bed rippling beneath his weight as he reached for the telephone. His bowels let go in that moment, he felt a hot gush of liquid excrement in his pants, and this frightened him more than anything else had, letting go that way, but he had only seconds to consider his fear because all at once he was jerking spasmodically on the bed, arms and legs twitching, head snapping back, gasping for breath, he couldn't breathe, his lungs were closing, his throat was closing, his chest was caving in, oh Jesus, he thought, Marilyn, he thought, and then he didn't think anything else because he was dead.

The clock on the kitchen wall read sixteen minutes to eleven.

Due to the diligence of the Sixth Precinct, Carella and Willis were on the scene at ten minutes past twelve. A sculptor who lived down the hall from Riley had knocked on the door, eager to show him a new piece he'd just finished, tried the knob, found the door open, and discovered Riley lying dead on the waterbed. He'd run back to his own loft and immediately called the police. The responding patrolmen in Adam car were Charlie and Frank. They took one look, and then called back to their sergeant to say they had a stiff at 74 Carlson Street. They also told the sergeant that the Eight-Seven was working a pair of homicides the stiff had mentioned to them—when he was still alive, of course. The sergeant called the Eight-Seven at eleven forty-one. It took Willis and Carella less than a half-hour to get all the way downtown.

Charlie and Frank were still at the scene.

Their sergeant had arrived by then. A uniformed captain was also there; homicides sometimes brought out the brass.

"M.E.'s on the way," the captain said.

"Adam car responded to a previous complaint here at a little before ten this morning," the sergeant said. "Victim reporting a break-in last night."

"Nothing was stolen," Charlie said at once, eager to cover his ass. This damn thing had suddenly mushroomed into a homicide.

"We were gonna put in our report that the Eight-Seven had him covered," Frank said, which was stretching the truth a bit.

The captain looked at both men non-committally. Charlie and Frank knew that non-committal look. They both figured they were in deep shit.

"Bottle of scotch there on the cabinet, smells like a dozen politicians smoking in a backroom," the sergeant said.

Carella wondered if the sergeant had handled the bottle.

"Package of Virginia Slims and a woman's cigarette lighter on the table in the other room," the captain said. "Initials M.H. on it."

Carella looked at Willis.

"There was a lady came in around ten," Charlie said, figuring if he could solve this case on the spot, he was home free.

Carella said nothing.

"Tall blonde lady," Frank said.

"Good-looking broad," Charlie said.

"Dressed all in blue. To match her eyes."

"Victim said she was a friend of his."

"Did you get her name?" the sergeant asked.

"Carolyn, I think," Charlie said.

No, not Carolyn, Carella thought.

"Carolyn what?" the captain said.

"I don't know, sir," Charlie said.

"We were responding to a 10-21," Frank said. "The victim said the lady was a friend of his."

"Still, you shoulda got her full name."

We've already got her full name, Carella thought.

"Nothing was stolen," Charlie said again, and shrugged.

The M.E. came into the loft, breezing past the patrolman posted at the door.

"Did you see the naked lady on the elevator doors?" he said. "Where's the body?"

"There on the waterbed," the captain said.

"Oh my," the M.E. said, "it certainly does stink in here, doesn't it?"

He went directly to the waterbed, skirting the shards of glass on the floor.

"Puuu," he said, and knelt beside the body.

Carella walked into the working area of the loft. He looked down at the package of Virginia Slims on the table, the monogrammed gold lighter sitting squarely on top of it. M.H. You've come a long way, baby, he thought. He looked at the finished painting against the wall. Riley seemed to have worked out the problem of making it snow.

In the living area, Willis said, "We'll want that bottle tagged and sent to the lab. Anybody touch it?"

"Not me," Charlie said at once.

"Me, either," Frank said.

"I tented it," the sergeant said.

"Why?" the captain asked Willis. "You think something's in that scotch?"

"Nicotine," Willis said.

"You a doctor?" the M.E. said.

"No, but…"

"Then let me do the post-mortem, okay?"

Willis glared at him for a moment, and then walked over to where Carella was standing beside the work table. He looked down at the package of cigarettes and the lighter.

"Is it hers?" Carella asked.

Willis nodded.

"Did you know she was coming here?"

"Yes."

"Okay, who talks to her?"

"I do," Willis said.