Read Online A Body to die for by Valerie Frankel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Valerie Frankel
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Client expenses. And I might pick up a few things for myself.”
All settled, we closed up the office. Alex and I took the stairs to the street. A breeze carrying the scent of boiled hot dogs mingled with the odor of hot tar. Exhaust billowed from buses and cars on Broadway. Spilled garbage glistened in the June sunshine. Times Square was at its most pungent in summertime. It was also at its slickest: posters of ice cream in storefront deli windows seemed to melt right onto the asphalt, bare shoulders dripped tiny streams of sweat and air conditioners rained down from on high, drizzling reconstituted water onto our unprotected heads, A cool drop splattered on the back of my neck, oozing down my back. It felt swell.
The three thousand dollars Jack gave me was now nestled safely in my underwear. The knife went back in my purse. Alex and I rode the Number 2 train out to the Clark Street station in Brooklyn Heights. The ride took about twenty-five minutes. I was convinced that some of the passengers had X-ray vision the way they stared at my lap. Not to be daunted, I returned the stares.
Alex, a Lower East Sider, wasn’t one of the majority of Manhattanites who thought Brooklyn was some far-off dark continent. He even knew something of the neighborhood. I liked not having to point him in the right direction when we got out of the subway. We walked the three blocks to the Western Athletic Club. I left Alex about a half block away. I didn’t want the steroid experiment doorman to see us together. It was possible he had a brain. Alex promised he would be careful and take all the necessary precautions. The last thing he wanted was a pulled muscle.
I power-walked all the way down to Court Street. It’s called Court Street because that’s where the Brooklyn Municipal Courts were. The precinct was also located under some scaffolding by the big marble and limestone City Hall building. As I approached, a handful of cops in brown uniforms emerged from the building. Brownies (aka the Shit Patrol) are responsible for dispensing parking tickets. The one time I’d been inside the court building was to contest a fifty-five-dollar parking ticket I’d got on a rental car. The brownie who wrote it out claimed I’d parked only eight feet from a hydrant. But I’d counted ten of my own feet to measure. (My hoofs are, uh, kind of large for a girl—but you know what they say about women with big feet. Big hearts.) I even took a Polaroid shot of my foot against a ruler to show that it was indeed eleven inches long. Though the judge was impressed with my visual aids, he “adjudicated” that I had to pay up in full. Apparently, the law requires you to park fifteen size eleven Doc Martens away from a hydrant in Gotham City. I promised to mail in my check—forgot to.
Feeling like an outlaw, I approached the front desk at the 18th Precinct. I told the sergeant behind it that I needed to speak to Jack Watson, former tennis star and alleged murderer. The cop’s bushy gray eyebrows went up when I said murderer. She buzzed me through. She pointed across the room, but it was all a blur. I apologized and put on my glasses. That’s when I noticed Detective Falcone sitting at a desk in the back of the room. She was alternating between drags of a cigarette, sips of coffee and bites of what appeared to be a Reuben sandwich with gobs of Russian dressing.
I licked my chops and walked over. She put her sandwich down when I got to her desk. She kept on smoking and drinking coffee. A string of her stringy hair dipped into the Styrofoam cup. She didn’t seem to care. We made eye contact. The clarity in her mud-colored eyes made me feel uneasy for a moment, like she knew something about me even I didn’t know. “Mallory,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you.” The seat of her chair wasn’t visible with her hips spilling over it like that.
I had a sudden premonition: Was this dumpy, sloppy, saggy woman what I’d become in twenty years?
All settled, we closed up the office. Alex and I took the stairs to the street. A breeze carrying the scent of boiled hot dogs mingled with the odor of hot tar. Exhaust billowed from buses and cars on Broadway. Spilled garbage glistened in the June sunshine. Times Square was at its most pungent in summertime. It was also at its slickest: posters of ice cream in storefront deli windows seemed to melt right onto the asphalt, bare shoulders dripped tiny streams of sweat and air conditioners rained down from on high, drizzling reconstituted water onto our unprotected heads, A cool drop splattered on the back of my neck, oozing down my back. It felt swell.
The three thousand dollars Jack gave me was now nestled safely in my underwear. The knife went back in my purse. Alex and I rode the Number 2 train out to the Clark Street station in Brooklyn Heights. The ride took about twenty-five minutes. I was convinced that some of the passengers had X-ray vision the way they stared at my lap. Not to be daunted, I returned the stares.
Alex, a Lower East Sider, wasn’t one of the majority of Manhattanites who thought Brooklyn was some far-off dark continent. He even knew something of the neighborhood. I liked not having to point him in the right direction when we got out of the subway. We walked the three blocks to the Western Athletic Club. I left Alex about a half block away. I didn’t want the steroid experiment doorman to see us together. It was possible he had a brain. Alex promised he would be careful and take all the necessary precautions. The last thing he wanted was a pulled muscle.
I power-walked all the way down to Court Street. It’s called Court Street because that’s where the Brooklyn Municipal Courts were. The precinct was also located under some scaffolding by the big marble and limestone City Hall building. As I approached, a handful of cops in brown uniforms emerged from the building. Brownies (aka the Shit Patrol) are responsible for dispensing parking tickets. The one time I’d been inside the court building was to contest a fifty-five-dollar parking ticket I’d got on a rental car. The brownie who wrote it out claimed I’d parked only eight feet from a hydrant. But I’d counted ten of my own feet to measure. (My hoofs are, uh, kind of large for a girl—but you know what they say about women with big feet. Big hearts.) I even took a Polaroid shot of my foot against a ruler to show that it was indeed eleven inches long. Though the judge was impressed with my visual aids, he “adjudicated” that I had to pay up in full. Apparently, the law requires you to park fifteen size eleven Doc Martens away from a hydrant in Gotham City. I promised to mail in my check—forgot to.
Feeling like an outlaw, I approached the front desk at the 18th Precinct. I told the sergeant behind it that I needed to speak to Jack Watson, former tennis star and alleged murderer. The cop’s bushy gray eyebrows went up when I said murderer. She buzzed me through. She pointed across the room, but it was all a blur. I apologized and put on my glasses. That’s when I noticed Detective Falcone sitting at a desk in the back of the room. She was alternating between drags of a cigarette, sips of coffee and bites of what appeared to be a Reuben sandwich with gobs of Russian dressing.
I licked my chops and walked over. She put her sandwich down when I got to her desk. She kept on smoking and drinking coffee. A string of her stringy hair dipped into the Styrofoam cup. She didn’t seem to care. We made eye contact. The clarity in her mud-colored eyes made me feel uneasy for a moment, like she knew something about me even I didn’t know. “Mallory,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you.” The seat of her chair wasn’t visible with her hips spilling over it like that.
I had a sudden premonition: Was this dumpy, sloppy, saggy woman what I’d become in twenty years?
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