In the back of my closet is a soft-cornered shoe box and I’m relieved to see it’s untouched. Underneath a pair of suede chocolate Mary Janes is a dog-eared business card with Detective Maslow’s contact information. I dial the number and sit cross-legged on the bed.
When the other line picks up, I rush on, talking over the clipped, soft voice on the phone. “Hello, this is Zoe Whittaker. I mean, Swanson. Hilary Lawlor.” And then I laugh because it sounds ridiculous.
“How can I help you?” The woman sounds like she’s speaking through a tin can.
“I need to speak with Detective Maslow. It’s an emergency.”
“Are you in danger?”
“Not immediately, I don’t think. My apartment has been broken into. But there’s no one here now.” My fingers are tapping on my knee; I can’t seem to sit still.
“Hold, please.” A hold line clicks on and I hear classical music, which strikes me as ironic. Anyone calling this line is dealing with a possible life-or-death situation. Here, have some Chopin. “Detective Maslow, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Maslow retired close to three years ago. Do you have a case number?”
“I do.” I relay the seventeen-digit number back to her, written in Maslow’s careful script on the back of the business card. Maslow. With his painfully thin frame and jutting cheekbones, but honest smile and appraising eyes.
She murmurs the numbers back to me and puts me on hold again. Pachelbel this time. I pace the length of the bed, sit, stand up again, walk the hallway, all while being careful to avoid the toppled boxes spilling from the closet.
“Ms. Lawlor?” She clicks back on the line. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“I need to know if Michael Flannery or Jared Pritchett is out on parole?”
There is silence and clacking while she types. “Ms. Lawlor? I don’t see these names in here. What do you want this information for?”
“Five years ago, I testified against them in a grand jury. Then I was kidnapped and brutally beaten for information, which I did not have. Then I ran away, forgoing witness protection. Now, my apartment is broken into. Can you see why I might be concerned that one of these men are paroled?”
“I understand. I will work on sorting this out. I’ll contact Maslow. In the meantime, I encourage you to contact your local police department regarding your break-in.”
“That’s it?” The abandonment feels like a heavy boulder on my breastbone and I can’t breathe.
“Call us back after you talk to the police. Make sure to get the report number.”
“The report number.” I repeat dumbly. “Okay.”
We hang up and I sink down onto the floor. I stare at the paper in my hand and know I won’t call back. It was a risk in the first place. Then I panic, wondering if they’ll trace my call. If Maslow will come out of retirement to find his missing witness. I stole their money. It’s laughable, no one cares anymore. It occurs to me that I could probably find out what happened to Jared or Mick myself.
I call Henry. I don’t call him at work often because he generally calls me several times a day. I’m surprised when he doesn’t pick up. I get voicemail at his office and cell phone. I pick up the phone and stare at the numbers, trying to think of who else I can call. I think of Lydia and her ’Enry ’Iggins.
There is no one.
? ? ?
Our building has six doormen who rotate shifts, and I like all of them. Then again, it is their job to be liked by the occupants of the building. Today, Trey is on duty and I sigh with relief. Trey is youngish, with smooth coffee skin and a smile to swoon over, but he has the build of a bouncer at a rough nightclub. I would have felt a lot less safe with Peter, who I’m guessing is around eighty and looks like a strong wind might be the thing that kills him.
“Our apartment was broken into,” I say, panicky, in Trey’s direction and he looks at me disbelieving. I dial 9-1-1. I relay all my information and the woman on the line promises a police car in five minutes. I hear the quick blirrrp in less than two.
Two uniformed officers approach the revolving door. They appraise the building with raised eyebrows and whispers. I can’t imagine they’ve ever covered a reported break-in here. I watch them scan the gold elevators, the inlaid mosaic tile. Their shoes squeak on the floor of the silent lobby. Trey wrinkles his nose with concern. A break-in on his watch may cost him his job. I lightly tap his arm and shake my head.
“Hi, I’m Zoe Whittaker.” I extend my hand to the officer standing slightly in front, an athletic woman of about forty.
Her dark hair is slicked back into a severe bun and her eyes are heavily rimmed with blue eyeliner. “Hi Ms. Whittaker. I’m Officer Yates and this is Officer Bernard.”