Tapestry: Nina Bell Mysteries, #1

CHAPTER ONE: THE MONEY

New York City: Autumn 1996

Give me the money, Jake said.

What money? Not the brightest, most original response on my part, but it's what tumbled out of my mouth. I shifted on the rain-slicked sidewalk. A streetlamp blared in my face. I couldn't see Jake's eyes; I couldn't tell how mad he was, and how far he'd go to get what he thought I had.

The money you just picked up from Carl Dario. Jake's voice was quieter now, and more urgent.

Huh?

Come on, Nina. I've been following you all day, said Jake. I saw him give you the envelope. I know it had cash in it.

You think Carl Dario is dumb enough to deal in cash? With someone he doesn't know? I laughed. Yeah, I got an envelope from him. But it doesn't have money in it. Why the hell weren't there any people on 11th Street at 9:30 at night?

Then it's got something you can use to get money with, said Jake. What is it? Photographs? Bonds?

Would you believe airline tickets?

No.

Why not?

Envelope’s too fat. You checked the contents of the envelope before you put it in your pocket.

What kind of binoculars were you watching me with? I asked. I'm going to have to get some.

Stop it!

"Would you believe he gave me a lot of airline tickets?" If I let him get his hands on me, I was in big trouble. Jake had a hell of a temper, and while he never hit me, for $10,000, tonight might be different. I didn't have the world's prettiest face, but I'm used to the way nature originally arranged it and I wanted to keep it that way.

Give me the envelope.

Okay, okay. But I have to reach into my jacket pocket for it.

Slowly.

Yeah. You watch too much TV. I made a big show of opening my hand and placed it in the outer pocket of my brother's red letter Varsity jacket. I love those pockets. You could put an entire small town in one of them and not look any fatter.

I wound my fingers around a roll of quarters I had for laundry. I slowly withdrew my hand.

Jake stepped closer, almost drooling. What had I ever seen in this man? I pulled my fist out of my pocket and hit him in the face as hard as I could. He staggered backwards. I hooked my foot underneath his knee and knocked his legs out from under him. Blood trickled out of his nose.

I turned and ran like hell. I'd never hit someone as big as Jake before, and I wasn't sure how long it would take him to get back up on his feet and come after me. I should have hit him with my left hand. My right hand was throbbing and starting to swell. I might need it again tonight.

The problem with those cheap sneakers from Woolworth's was that they were useless in the rain. Not only did the water soak through the canvas and make the socks squeak and the feet all cold and slimy, but the treads weren’t deep enough to give any traction.

That is the long, involved way of saying that my ass met the pavement more than once. My knees got a good bruising, too. But I managed to get up and keep going and turn enough corners to keep Jake confused. He couldn't outthink me at this point because I wasn't thinking. I was running. Turning every corner I could, heading north.

My first instinct was to run for the subway. Jake was big and he was fast. My idea of exercise was to order Chinese food and have it delivered. There was no way I could outrun him.

I galloped down the stairs into the Union Square Station. The minute I hit the bottom of the stairs, I realized how dumb that was. I never waited less than twenty minutes for an N or an R. Why would tonight be any different?

Jake must be at the top of the stairs by now. I ran across the subway station to the other exit rather than down to the trains. I startled a transit cop and a couple of homeless guys. I stumbled and fell on my face this time as I missed the first step on the way up.

You okay? I was aware of blue eyes as a guy in a black leather jacket helped me back to my feet.

Yeah. Fine. Thanks. I dashed up the stairs on the east side of Union Square and took off down Fourth Avenue.

As the adrenalin rush faded, and with it, my breath, I realized this wasn't one of my more brilliant ideas, either. I was running toward home. Jake knew where I lived. He stayed over often enough.

I stopped on the corner of 10th Street and looked behind me. No sign of Jake. That didn't mean he wasn't around, just that I couldn't see him. My knees and feet hurt, I was out of breath, and my hand was swollen.

I stuck the swollen hand in the air. A yellow cab screeched to a stop. I opened the door with my left hand and crawled into the back seat.

Where to? asked the driver.

I gave him Jake's address.

Jake lived in a fifth floor walkup in Hell's Kitchen. They try to call it Clinton Corners now or something like that, but it's Hell's Kitchen. There’s way too much vibe here from the history as Hell’s Kitchen to change with a kitschy, yuppie name. Even the new apartments and restaurants they’re putting in can’t make it happen overnight.

A tall, thin man with his mirror image female companion came out of the building as I got there. I scooted past them. I was too tired to run up five flights of stairs, but I walked up as fast as I could. Jake’s door was locked, but who needs a key when one has a bank card? Mine couldn't be used to get much cash right now, but it was handy to open doors.

I flipped on the lights. The cockroaches scrambled for cover. The apartment was neat for a guy, other than a pair of green boxer shorts draped over the back of the kitchen chair. No food left out on the board that transformed the purple bathtub into a kitchen table. Those cockroaches must be pretty frustrated.

I turned on Jake's radio and switched it to a classic rock station. I stood in the middle of the living room/bedroom rocking to the beat of the Doors, trying to figure out what to do next. I couldn't stay here. By two or three a.m., Jake would figure I wasn't going home.

I needed clothes. And something to put them in. Jake had an empty backpack in the corner by the door. I opened Jake's drawers. I took a pair of black sweatpants and matching shirt, a couple of generically knit boy sweaters, and a pair of jeans I left a few weeks ago, when I spent the night. I thought wistfully about my drawer full of Victoria's Secret lingerie at home—one of the few extravagances I allowed myself—but it would have to be the dime store special picked up on the way out of town for a few days. I found a large, hooded navy blue sweatshirt. It was big enough to hide the red letter jacket, and the hood would hide my red hair.

I had $10,200 on my body. $10,000 of it was in an envelope I transferred to my inside jacket pocket in the ladies' room of the bar where I met Carl Dario. I had the $200 split up in the various pockets of my jeans, a fee for pickup and delivery. I wanted to deliver the money and go home. I hated not being able to go home. I especially hated it because I didn't know how long Jake would hold a grudge.

I was proud of the apartment box I called home. It had one room, shower in the kitchen beside the sink, toilet in a closet, a futon bed, a table and one chair I found on the street, some fruit crates filled with books, a philodendron, a couple of lamps, a small TV, and a boom box. But it was mine.

I didn't want to leave it, even temporarily, but what could I do? I never thought of Jake as the greedy type, but ten grand was ten grand. I'd never handled so much money in my life before, or even seen it except in high-stakes poker. I’d peeked into the envelope when Dario handed it to me. When I counted it in the ladies' room to make sure Dario hadn't cheated me, temptation assaulted me. I wanted to take the money and run, go do something wild, something I'd never done before. Only, I couldn't decide what that was. And then, the damn conscience kicked in. I'm too nice for my own good.

My boss, Roger Fey, asked me to meet this Dario guy, pick up the money and bring it to him. It was supposed to be simple. It never occurred to me to question Roger. It sounded like fun, something out of the movies.

Now I had Jake, who was supposed to be my boyfriend, who's supposed to care about me, ready to do God-knows what to me to get the money. Would he just beat me up or would he kill me? Especially since I hit him. Jake wasn’t the kind to put up with getting hit by a girl.

Was ten thou worth killing for? I didn't know. How the hell had Jake known to follow me? I didn't know where I was going until this afternoon. I had not mentioned one word about Roger's little scheme to him. I know when to keep my mouth shut – usually.

I had to drop off the $10,000 and get out of town. I wondered how far a $50 bus ticket went. I'd jump on whatever bus was leaving Port Authority when I got there and see where I ended up. I was on a temp job, and temps often leave at the end of the day and never show up again.

I didn’t have any theatre or rock and roll gigs to look forward to. I mean, New York’s not the only place in the world to be an artist, right? For me it is, but if I’m dead or beat to a pulp, how artistic could I be? Outta town for a bit, come back when it’s safe. Safer. New York’s never really safe.

I looked around the apartment. On the counter next to the refrigerator an unopened pint of Jack Daniel’s teased me. I tossed it into the backpack. I shut off the radio and returned the dial to the original station. I opened Jake's door and listened.

Nothing. I made sure the door locked behind me and scooted down the stairs, staying as much in the shadows as possible.

I stopped at a pay phone on the corner. The one that worked. First, I dialed Roger's downtown office. Voice mail. I tried his Upper West Side number. Busy. Head uptown, then.

I caught the 1 train at 59th and rode up to 96th. I pulled a paperback out of another jacket pocket and out from under the sweatshirt. I became just another student riding home. I peeked over the top of the book, expecting to see Jake loom over me at any moment, but nothing.

Spare any change? Despite my attempts at awareness, I nearly jumped to the ceiling when the cup was thrust in my face. The hand had cracked skin, caked with dirt, and the face wasn't in much better shape. I held my breath so I wouldn't asphyxiate from his cheap booze breath and shook my head. I felt guilty for not helping him. You sure? he persisted. I focused on my book, and he moved away.

I walked east on 96th Street until I hit the park. There were a bunch of cop cars and an ambulance on 96th Street, but I didn't have time to stop and find out what was going on. I entered Roger's building. Finn, the doorman, talked to a cop.

Hey, Finn, can you buzz Roger Fey for me? I asked. He's expecting me.

Finn gave me an odd look and the cop stepped forward. I'll take you up, he said.

I stepped back, but the cop grabbed my arm. Finn, what's going on? I asked.

Into the elevator. Detective Michaels will explain everything, said the cop, guiding me into the little box.

CHAPTER TWO: THE BODY

My instinct told me to run. However, I stood in an ascending elevator with a cop clamped to one arm. I didn't have many options. He was overweight, red-eyed and overtired, trying to get by and survive long enough to retire. The cop's name tag read Booker.

I wondered if he lived up to it.

Roger would fill me in. Yet, if there were cops in Roger's apartment, and they were attached to all the commotion downstairs, maybe Roger was sick or hurt.

The elevator doors opened and we stepped into Roger's apartment. The place swarmed with people, both uniformed and in street clothes, like bugs at some sort of sick picnic. The cop steered me into the living room towards two men. One was unusually tall with a mane of silver hair.

As the other guy turned to face me, I recognized the blue eyes from my fall in Union Square earlier in the evening. The recognition meant something, but I couldn't think what.

She just arrived downstairs, Booker said, pushing me forward. Said Fey's expecting her.

He's dead, isn't he? I asked, looking at the older man. That's why there's all this circus. He's not just hurt, he's dead. I didn't let myself feel anything. Not yet.

Yes, said the tall guy with the silver hair.

Where is he?

Booker made a gesture to stop me, and the man shook his head. In the study. But you don’t want to see him.

I have to. I plowed through the specialists crawling around doing their jobs and stopped at the doorway to the den. I knew they couldn’t let me in the room, but they let me as far as the door.

You read about dead people all the time: the discolored skin, the black tongue, bulging eyes, the smell of excrement the body releases in death. None of the books or movies had prepared me for the way it looked or tasted to see someone I knew murdered.

For a minute, I thought I would collapse and throw up right there on the red and white Persian rug. But I took a deep breath, stepped away, and walked on wobbly legs back to the living room.

I sat down on one of the red brocade Victorian chairs. The guy with the blue eyes handed me a glass of cold water. It felt good going down. I handed the empty glass to him, and he wrapped it in a handkerchief and put it in a plastic bag. I pulled the J.D. out of my pack.

You mind? I asked.

I'd rather you waited. Silver Mane shook his head.

Sorry. I took a long drink. I held it out to them as an offering, but they refused. I recapped the bottle.

Better? asked Blue Eyes.

Yeah.

That hand looks pretty wrecked, he said. I'm going to see if I can find some ice.

We need to ask you some questions, said Silver Mane.

Yeah.

I'm Detective Nathaniel Michaels, Homicide, he said. This is Detective Charlie Greer, working with me, from the local precinct. Who are you?

Nina Bell. Greer came back into the room with some ice wrapped in a dish towel. It had little red flowers on it. I wouldn't have expected Roger to own something decorated with little red flowers. Greer sat on a footstool beside me and held the ice onto my hand. I didn't mind.

Thanks. Now that he was close enough for me to stare at, I figured him in his mid-thirties. Was that young for a detective? I had no idea. His hair was a dark brown, like chestnuts when they come out of the hull.

Where do you live?

I gave my address on East 6th Street.

How did you know Roger Fey?

I winced at the use of past tense. I've been his temp for the last three months. You know, filling in while his secretary's on maternity leave.

You're a secretary? asked Booker.

I own pantyhose, I said. Sometimes I even wear a dress.

How long were you scheduled to work for him? Michaels asked.

The assignment is for four to six months, I said. I'm not sure how long I'll stay.

Let me guess—this isn't your career, said Greer.

Right.

What is your career? asked Michaels.

I don't have one yet.

Haven't decided what you want to be when you grow up? Booker snickered.

I ignored him. So did Michaels, who asked, What else do you do?

I’m a twenty-two-year-old theatre grad from NYU. I paint sets for some of the off-off-off-off Broadway companies, and sometimes I work backstage moving scenery or running lights or something, sometimes I do the quick changes with the actors between scenes, and sometimes I crew for local bands. I temp between gigs.

Why did Fey expect you tonight?

He asked me to pick up something for him and bring it by, I said.

Did you see him often outside of work?

I ran errands for him sometimes, I said, doing my vocal impersonation of Antarctica. We got along well. He didn't treat me like a drudge or a moron, the way a lot of the other executives treat their secretaries. We didn't socialize. You meet a lot of slime working as a temp. He was a good guy. He treated me well.

He was good to work for? Greer asked. He removed the ice and started wrapping my hand in an ace bandage.

He's a lot of fun, I said. Always cheerful. More than cheerful. Gleeful. I looked around the room. I tried to focus, but I felt so disconnected it was as though my eyes were roaming around the room while my body stayed in the chair. The image of eyeballs on little feet wandering around made me squash a giggle before it bubbled up from my chest. If I didn't watch out, I'd become hysterical. Focus, Bell.

A woman with short dark hair dusted furniture with powder, I guessed, for fingerprints. Roger'd hate all the dust she left. Then, I realized Roger wasn't in a position to care anymore. I felt the threat of tears and took in a gulp of air. I would not cry. No way. Facts. These people wanted facts about Roger so they could figure out who killed him. Facts would help them find the son-of-a-bitch who did this. It was the only thing I could do to help.

He brought in donuts and treats for the staff, remembered everybody's birthday, even the cleaning lady’s, with cards and flowers and balloons. If he didn't have a business lunch, he'd rollerblade or play racquetball. He got in about seven in the morning and work until seven or eight at night.

I heard laughter coming from the other room. The sound made me want to scream and throw things. I didn't care about the terrible things cops had to face every day and their need to break the tension. I cared that Roger was dead and they were laughing.

Greer gave my arm a gentle squeeze. Knowing that he understood my unspoken anger calmed me. He used to say whatever he felt like, shake up some of the more conformist executives and the new guys who thought they could brown nose their way up. Used to play practical jokes on people when he thought they were getting too serious.

What kind of practical jokes? asked Michaels.

"Silly stuff. Like a rubber snake springing out of the microwave during a staff meeting; or