After Midnight

29
MURPHY

Leaving Judy’s car parked around the corner, I walked back to 8448 Adams.
It was an old, single-level building with eight small units and an open, grassy courtyard in the middle. I didn’t know Tony’s apartment number. So instead of entering, I just looked the place over and kept walking.
Each front door had a mailbox nearby. Too bad. If you’re in a complex with a bank of mailboxes, the post office requires names on all the boxes. But when you’ve got your own box, like at this place, you don’t need to put your name on it. And nobody does.
Three of the units had newspapers in front of them.
One of those was probably Tony’s.
But which?
Had the Tribune delivery person shown up yet with the replacement? If not, I could simply wait for him and see what he does.
But there was a slim chance that he’d already been here and gone. (He certainly wouldn’t have left a second paper on the doorstep.) If he’d already shown up, I would have an awfully long wait.
There was just no way to know for sure.
Anyway, I didn’t have time to waste. I had to get this done and get going.
Maybe the car ports or garages would give me a clue as to Tony’s apartment number. So I headed for the end of the block to look for an alley entrance.
And heard a distant siren.
Oh, my God!
The sound froze me.
My mind went nuts. The cops had found Tony’s body, knew I’d killed him, knew where to find me, and were swooping in for the arrest. In a matter of seconds, squad cars would roar around the corners and shriek to a halt. Cops would leap out and come at me with their guns drawn.
I had an urge to break into a run.
The siren’s cry grew louder.
They can’t know it’s me! How can they know it’s me?
Just play innocent, I warned myself. Admit nothing. Stay calm.
What can they really prove?
As the siren noise bore down on me from behind, I turned my head and looked over my shoulder.
Siren blaring, lights aflash, an ambulance sped by me and kept going.
I laughed at myself. But my heart was thumping like mad, and I was suddenly out of breath.
Even after the ambulance was out of sight, I stood there gasping, trying to calm down.
Not enough sleep, that was the problem.
That, and a little too much stress.
Maybe I should’ve had that extra Bloody Mary with breakfast, after all.
I’ve gotta get out of here!
But I couldn’t just give up on Tony’s place without at least trying to get in. It was almost a miracle that I’d been able to find out his address. I was meant to come here, get inside somehow, and take us off his redial.
Just go for it!
I turned around and walked back to his building. I wasn’t sure what to do. Go door to door, maybe, saying my car broke down and I need to use a phone…
MANAGER
It was a sign near the door of apartment one.
The building manager would have to know Tony’s apartment number. And he or she would have keys for it.
I hurried over and rang the doorbell.
I did it with a knuckle.
Knuckles don’t leave fingerprints.
Nothing happened, so I rang it again. This time, a man’s voice called, “Hang on, there! I’m on my way!”
A few seconds later, the front door swung open. The screen door still stood in the way. Through the gray mesh, I could barely make out the man on the other side.
“Well, hello there,” he said.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Take a step backward, and I’ll open the screen. Don’t wanta knock you on your keester, do I?”
I took a step backward, and he swung the screen door open. He held it wide with an outstretched arm. He was maybe about thirty years old. He had messy brown hair and wore glasses. He also wore a Bear Whizz Beer T-shirt that showed a grizzly bear peeing in a woodland stream. His shorts appeared to be swimming trunks, even though the apartment building didn’t seem to have a swimming pool. He was barefoot.
Not much to look at, but he had a nice smile and I sort of liked the glint in his eyes.
“My name’s Fran Johnson,” I told him, and held out my hand.
“Murphy Scott.” He gave my hand a hearty shake as if we were old pals. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Fran. And what brings you here, this fine morning?”
“I’m looking for my boyfriend, Tony. Tony Romano.”
“Ah, Tony!”
“He lives here, doesn’t he?”
“He does indeed. I helped him move in last Saturday. Apartment six, directly across the way.”
Nodding, I muttered, “Six, I know,” and glanced over my shoulder at the unit on the other side of the lawn. It was one of the three with a Tribune on the stoop.
I faced Murphy again and said, “The thing is, he isn’t…I’m afraid something might be wrong. We were supposed to meet for breakfast this morning, but he didn’t show up. I waited over an hour for him.”
Frowning, Murphy shook his head.
“Have you seen him at all this morning?” I asked.
“Nope. I just got up.”
“I phoned him a few minutes ago, but all I got was his answering machine.”
“Maybe he screens his calls.”
“But I told him it was me, and he still didn’t pick up.”
“He might’ve been indisposed at the time. That sort of thing happens. He could’ve been taking a shower, for instance.”
“Maybe, but…”
“A lot of possibilities.” With a sheepish look on his face, Murphy said, “Sometimes, guy’s just…” He shrugged. “Were you getting along all right?”
“Sure. I mean, as far as I know. Nothing seemed to be wrong. And we had this date for breakfast.”
Frowning past my shoulder, Murphy said, “He hasn’t picked up his paper yet. Maybe he just overslept or something.”
“But he didn’t answer his phone.”
“Why don’t you go over and give his doorbell a ring or two?” Murphy suggested.
“I already tried, but…okay.”
While Murphy watched, I walked across the grass to unit six and pushed the doorbell with my knuckle. The sound of the ringing gave me flutters in the stomach.
What if he comes to the door?
Yeah, right. In his condition?
But somebody else might open it.
A cop. A friend. A twin.
Be ready for anything. Stay cool.
The door stayed shut.
I rang the bell a few more times, then turned around and headed back for Murphy. As I walked toward him, he checked me out.
Normally, I don’t like it when guys do that.
Most guys are pigs.
Anyway, I didn’t mind Murphy looking me over. I’d only just met him, but I already knew he wasn’t some kind of a*shole. Also, I could tell that he liked what he was seeing, and I can’t say I blamed him.
Along with my red wig, bright lipstick and enormous earrings, I wore a yellow blouse the color of a lemon. I would’ve preferred a halter top, but had to keep my midriff covered because of the injury. To make things interesting, I’d left a few of my upper buttons undone. Plenty of cleavage showed.
My legs were scratched and bruised, too, so I couldn’t wear my really short, snug shorts. I’d chosen a skirt, instead. A light, full skirt of forest green. It drifted against my legs and had a slit up one side. In a certain light, you could see through it.
The whole outfit was intended to draw men’s eyes. To attract them and distract them. They would see the flamboyant redhead, the stacked and leggy broad—not me.
My shoes, actually, weren’t part of the outfit. The costume screamed out for something like gold lamé slippers or snake-skin boots. But I wore white sneakers for comfort and speed.
Murphy, watching me, shook his head and smiled.
“What?” I asked.
“Tony’s gotta be either nuts or dead to miss a breakfast with you.”
I must’ve blushed. I sure felt very hot all of a sudden.
“The thing is,” I said, “he’s diabetic. Did he tell you about that?”
Murphy lost his smile. “Oh, man,” he said. “No, he didn’t say anything about that. Diabetic? Maybe we’d better have a look. I’ll go get the keys.”
He vanished inside, but his screen door barely had time to swing shut before he pushed it open and came out. As I followed him across the courtyard, I scanned the rest of the apartments. I saw nobody.
He pulled open Tony’s screen door and knocked a couple of times on the wooden door. But he didn’t wait for a response. He stuck a key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open. Then he called out, “Tony?”
We both listened, but heard nothing.
“Tony? It’s Murphy, the manager. Are you here?”
Still no answer, so Murphy stepped inside. I crouched, picked up the Tribune by the rubber band around its middle, and entered behind him. We were in a small, tidy living room.
I saw Tony’s answering machine on a lamp table beside his couch. “Maybe I’d better wait here,” I whispered. “In case he’s…indecent or something.”
“No problem,” Murphy said, and hurried away to search the apartment.
The moment he stepped into the bedroom, I rushed forward, tossed the newspaper onto Tony’s couch, swung my purse behind my back to get it out of the way, and picked up the telephone.
At the sound of a dial tone, I started to tap numbers into the keyboard.
The three-digit local prefix.
Then four random numbers.
In the earpiece, I heard quiet, ringing sounds.
YES!!!
Murphy, coming out of the bedroom, looked at me and shook his head.
I gave him a smile, then spoke into the mouthpiece. “Barb? It’s me, Fran.”
Murphy hurried on, apparently to check the kitchen.
“I got the manager to let me into his apartment, but he doesn’t seem to be here.” Then I called out, “Murphy, any sign of him?”
“Nope.”
To the ringing phone, I said, “I guess it’s good news. I was really afraid he might’ve had another seizure.”
Murphy came back into the living room, his eyebrows raised, his head shaking.
“Any sign of him?” I asked.
“Nothing. He’s not here.”
I gave Murphy a grateful smile, then told the phone, “He’s definitely not here…No, I don’t know if his car’s here.”
“I’ll go look,” Murphy said.
A moment later, he was gone. The screen door clapped shut behind him.
I hung up.
Then I flipped up the plastic cover of the answering machine, took out Tony’s tape cassette, shut the cover and gave it a quick wipe with my skirt. I tucked the tiny cassette down the front of my panties.
After that, I picked up the phone and tapped in another set of random numbers.
This time, somebody picked up after the first ring. A man’s voice said, “Hello?”
I didn’t say a thing.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“This is Margaret,” I said, “from Westside Marketing Research…”
“Not interested,” he said and hung up.
I still had the apartment to myself. As I tried a new number, I noticed a calendar beside the answering machine. It was the kind that has a small, separate page for each day of the year. The number showing on the right was yesterday’s date.
The thick stack of pages on the left side of the center rings told me that Tony was in the habit of turning them over, not ripping them out.
From the other end of the line came a busy signal.
With the edge of a fingertip, I flipped the calendar page over so today’s date showed.
Then, hearing a quick approach of footsteps on the outside walkway, I said into the phone, “Maybe so. I sure hope so, anyway.”
As the screen door opened, I turned around and smiled at Murphy.
He came in, shaking his head. “Car’s gone,” he whispered.
“Thanks, Murphy.” Into the phone, I said, “Tony’s car is gone…I have no idea…Well, I’d much rather be stood up for a breakfast date than have Tony in a coma, or something. I’m glad we didn’t find him, you know?…Right, I’ll let you know if I find out anything. Bye-bye.”
I hung up, then said to Murphy, “That was Tony’s sister. She’s even more worried than I am. I made the mistake of calling her from the restaurant…They’re really close. I thought she might know where he was. But I only ended up scaring her half to death.”
“He’s probably fine,” Murphy said.
“I sure hope so.”
“Ready to go?”
No! My fingerprints were all over the phone.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “I guess.”
He frowned slightly, but turned around and started toward the door.
“I don’t…”
He looked back. “What?”
“…feel so good.”