A Jeff Resnick Six Pack Read online

  I answered honestly. “I don’t know. But I hope so.”

  Maggie wouldn’t look at me. She clasped the wineglass so hard I thought it might shatter. “It doesn’t matter what I say or think. You’ve already made up your mind to go.”

  “Yeah, I have.”

  Maggie shook her head and her eyes welled with tears, and she broadcast a myriad of confusing emotions; fear and dread topping the list.

  I frowned. “I don’t get it. You can’t be jealous of Shelley. She’s dead.”

  “Yeah, and she still takes up a really big space in your heart.”

  “No more than your ex-husband does for you. You’ve told me you’ve forgiven him. Hell, you even accepted the fact that he married the guy he left you for. Why can’t you cut me the same slack?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because I’m worried about how what you find out could affect you. You like to think of yourself as all healed from the crap you endured with Shelley, and then the mugging, but you’re not. You’re really pretty fragile.”

  I considered what she’d said. Yeah. Back in May I was pretty much a basket case. But I’d healed. I’d grown stronger. My family ties were better than they’d ever been. Maggie’s and my relationship had been the weak link in the chain, but I’d thought we’d gotten through the worst of things. Why did she want to rehash the crap of the past?

  “I’m looking for closure. Nothing more.”

  “Oh, yeah? You who have made contact with the spirit world before?”

  Had I? Or had I dreamed—or worse, hallucinated—about connecting with those previously alive?

  But then Richard had had a supernatural experience, too. I didn’t want to think about it. Still, I needed to address Maggie’s concerns.

  “Oh, Babe. You have nothing to be concerned about when it comes to my feelings for Shelley. She screwed me. She ruined me financially. She robbed me of everything I held dear.”

  “And yet you still feel compelled to find whoever killed her. Why?”

  I had to think about it. I had to swallow down the huge lump that had formed in the back of my throat. “Because I once vowed to love her in sickness and in health. Her drug addiction was a terrible sickness.”

  “What about the ’til death do you part piece of that equation? Because she’s now dead. You’ve been forever parted. Or have you?”

  “How could I connect with her? I’m here in Buffalo—nearly four hundred miles away.”

  “Well, you won’t be if you go to Manhattan.”

  “She’s buried in New Jersey.”

  “Which isn’t all that far from where you’ll be.”

  Maggie was talking nonsense. Then again, I remembered a scene from the movie Ghostbusters that I’d seen a million years before on TV. Where one of the spirit eradicators had been seduced by a sexy apparition. Did Maggie think I was into necrophilia? Shelley had not been embalmed. Did Maggie think I would be attracted to a moldering corpse? Now I was delving into horror—or dark fantasy. Either way, I didn’t want to think about it.

  “Maggs, you’re being unreasonable.”

  She pursed her lips before speaking. “Maybe. But I can’t help the way I feel.” Maggie pushed her still half-full wineglass forward.

  “You’re not going to stay tonight, are you?” I asked, disappointed.

  “No.”

  I guess I should have expected that answer. “Do you want me to call you when I come home?”

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  Why didn’t I just open the silverware drawer and hand her a butcher knife, because her words had pierced my heart like a wicked attack. She knew it, too. But I wasn’t a prick enough to throw it in her face. She’d been scarred by betrayal too many times to fully trust. I understood that. She didn’t trust me now, but I knew I’d come back to Buffalo and our bond could only grow stronger. But for now, I had to listen and accept that she was afraid.

  I moved around my breakfast bar and stood before her. “I love you, Maggs. I get where you’re coming from, but I need to do this. It’s going to be awful. It’s going to wound my soul. But if I’m lucky, I’ll lay Shelley to rest once and for all. I know you don’t want to hear this, but she was my first real love. We were happy together for far too short a time. She screwed me. But I vowed for better and for worse. I’m still bound by that promise.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I wouldn’t respect you if you weren’t. But this is really hard—especially right now.”

  I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her. “I know,” I said, but I really wasn’t sure what she meant. Both our emotions were so conflicted that I felt a tremendous sense of turmoil.

  She hugged me back, and I absorbed the painful, conflicting emotions that swirled within her. Still, I hugged her tighter, and she did likewise.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered in my ear.

  “Shhh. It’s okay.”

  We clung together for a long time, but finally Maggie pulled back. “I have to go home.”

  I nodded. “Can I call you while I’m gone?”

  She managed a wan smile. “I’ll be pissed if you don’t.”

  “I will come home. You, and Richard, and Brenda, and Betsy are my family. But I need to get through this and put it behind me.”

  “I understand,” Maggie said, but I knew she didn’t. She stood, and I followed her to the closet where she’d hung up her coat when she’d first arrived. I grabbed it and helped her into the sleeves.

  “Call me when you get home. Just so I don’t worry. If you don’t want to talk, just give me the old double-ring ceremony,” I said. Two rings and she’d hang up. We’d done this so many times in the past.

  “I will,” she promised.

  I kissed her on the nose. Then I kissed her lips. I kissed her again and again. “I love you, Maggs.”

  “I love you, too,” she said.

  I didn’t doubt it. Sometimes, like now, she still did.

  “Will you call me tomorrow night?” she asked.

  “You bet.”

  She nodded and turned for the stairs that led to the driveway. I watched her go, then closed the door and moved to the window in my living room. She got in her car and drove away.

  Maggie was worried about what I’d learn about my ex-wife and the circumstances of her death and how I’d feel about it.

  She wasn’t the only one.

  #

  The flight from Buffalo to the Big Apple took just about an hour and was pleasant for everyone on board. Everyone except me, that is. Stuffed in a metal tube—with engines roaring on both sides of the plane—made me feel claustrophobic, and the emotional baggage of seventy or eighty other people was painful to endure. I was glad Richard had come along. I needed a keeper after I stumbled off the plane. He dragged me to the luggage carousel, parked me against a support pillar, and retrieved our bags.

  “Can you get us a cab?” I asked, my eyes scrunched to half-mast to keep out the worst of the fluorescent light.

  “No cab,” he said and pointed toward a bearded guy in a black overcoat with a black cap holding a sign up that said ALPERT. “We’re traveling by limo.”

  “Limo?” I asked. “Why?”

  “Because we can.”

  I sometimes forget that Richard is filthy rich.

  We met up with the driver, who immediately took charge of the luggage and led us to a black Lincoln Town Car. We eased into the backseat, buckled up, and I sank back, closing my eyes and hoped the pounding in my skull would miraculously abate.

  The ride from the airport to the city seemed to take forever. If I hadn’t felt so lousy, I might have watched the scenery go by, anticipating familiar landmarks. I’d lived in Manhattan for almost fourteen years, most of them unhappy. But this wasn’t a pleasure trip, I had to remind myself.

  Finally the car pulled up to a curb and the driver got out.

  “We’re here,” Richard said.

  I sat up straighter and looked around, trying to get my bearings. We weren’t in front o
f any hotel I knew. “Where are we?”

  “At our destination,” Richard said obliquely.

  I unbuckled my seat belt and got out of the car. The luggage was waiting on the sidewalk. Richard tipped the driver, who gave a nod and got back into the car, pulling away. I tilted my head back until it hurt, looking up at the building that seemed to be totally clad in black glass. I didn’t have time to ask any other questions as Richard had picked up our bags and started for the front door. I shouldered deeper into the new heavy coat I’d bought for the trip and followed him. A doorman stood ready to welcome us.

  The lobby was a sea of gray tile and black granite. A man in his early thirties, dressed in a black suit and blue tie, with a crisp white shirt, sat behind the reception desk. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How can I help you?”

  “I’m Richard Alpert.”

  “Ah, yes,” the man said and reached for something. He handed Richard an envelope. “If you need anything, please feel free to call down. The number is printed on the card inside.”

  “Thank you,” Richard said. He turned to me. “The elevators are just over here.”

  I followed him, wondering where the hell he was taking me.

  Richard pressed the up button and, magically, the elevator doors opened. We got in. Richard hit the button for the eleventh floor.

  “I take it you know where we’re going.”

  “I’ve been here before,” he said.

  Since we weren’t in a hotel, this had to be a swanky apartment building. “I didn’t know you owned a place here in Manhattan.”

  “I don’t.”

  Before I could ask for clarification, the elevator came to a halt and the doors opened. Richard strode into the hallway, turning left. I followed him to a door marked 1104. He took a keycard from the envelope, slid it into a slot, and the lock clicked. He opened the door, leading the way, and flipped a light switch. I closed the door behind us. “I’m confused. Are you borrowing a friend’s apartment?”

  “Sort of,” he said, and set the bags down. He unbuttoned his coat. To his left was a closet, where he hung his coat and waited for mine, then hung it, too. “Come on inside,” he said, leaving the bags on the entry’s marble floor. He walked into the darkened living room and turned on a number of lamps. He obviously knew this place well.

  “Give,” I said, taking in the comfortable contemporary furnishings that leaned to leather and chrome.

  Richard took one of the chairs, inviting me to do the same. He kicked off his shoes. “This apartment is owned by the foundation I use to work for in Pasadena.”

  “The place that let you and Brenda go?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Why would they let you use the place gratis?”

  “Because the guy who runs the foundation and I are still good friends. He fought to keep Brenda and me, and he lost.”

  “Your friend, Michael?” I guessed.

  Richard nodded. “This apartment sits empty most of the year. Knowing the way you absorb the residual auras of people, and how detrimental it can be, I didn’t want to park you in a hotel. I wanted us to stay in a quiet place without a lot of baggage attached to it.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said. I took a deep breath. There weren’t any discernable emotions in the apartment. The people who had stayed there came with a purpose, fulfilled their obligations, and left. “It feels pretty tranquil.” That said, my head still pounded. “I’m sorry to be such a wet blanket, but I need to crash.”

  Richard stood. “Come on. The bedrooms are just down the hall. Do you want the master?”

  I shook my head—wincing. It was his connection that had brought us here. I was more than willing to let him have the better bedroom.

  Richard led the way, entering the room and turning on the bedside light.

  The second bedroom turned out to be bigger and a lot nicer than my own back in Buffalo. The apartment had to be worth a couple million dollars or more in a city where square footage came at a premium. Hell, my entire former apartment could have fit in that beautiful living room alone.

  Richard drew back the bedspread. “Take a nap. You’ll feel better later.”

  He left me and it was my turn to kick off my shoes.

  I turned off the light and climbed onto the bed. Since it had been so long since anyone had slept on the mattress, I glommed onto nothing at all.

  I closed my eyes and slept.

  #

  The hall light was on when I awoke, and from somewhere in the distance I could hear the soft strains of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons—Richard’s favorite piece of music. He listened to it over and over again. It was cheerful—at least the part I was most familiar with. Cheerful seemed to equal hope. Unfortunately, the only hope this little trip offered me was an opportunity to put an end to the calls and distressing interruptions in my life.

  My head was no longer pounding, which was good. But my gut felt tight. Whatever I learned in the next day or so would be painful and bring up nothing but unhappy memories. The sting of failure was still sharp because I hadn’t been able to help Shelley during those last miserable months of her existence. If my efforts could help discover the person or persons who’d stolen her life, it would at least let me finally put that part of my life behind me forever.

  I found Richard in the living room consulting his iPad. He looked up as I entered. “Oh, good, you’re awake. Come and sit. How are you feeling?”

  “Much better.” I took the seat opposite him. The drapes were open and night had fallen. The lights in the surrounding buildings looked like something out of a travel brochure. I nodded toward the stereo. “Vivaldi.”

  “I plugged in my iPod,” he said simply. “Is it too early for me to ask about tomorrow?”

  I shook my head. “We’re supposed to see Detective Baldwin at eight.”

  “Are you ready for what you might experience?”

  “I don’t know. But I’d like to finally put that chapter of my life with Shelley behind me. Maybe then Maggie and I can finally move forward.”

  Richard looked away. That had to mean something. His wife was Maggie’s best friend. Had Maggie confided to Brenda—who’d shared with my brother—her true feelings about our relationship where she hadn’t spoken of it to me the night before? I wasn’t sure how I felt about that possibility. And I wasn’t about to voice my misgivings to Richard. At least not then.

  A glass of what looked like Scotch sat before him on the chrome-and-glass cocktail table. “Is there anything here I might like to drink?”

  Richard smiled. “While you were asleep, I visited a liquor store and a deli. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to go out, so I got some stuff that should stave off starvation tonight and for breakfast tomorrow.”

  “Good idea. Thanks.”

  “The bourbon’s on the counter in the kitchen. Want me to fix you a drink?”

  I shook my head. “I can do it.” I got up and headed for the kitchen. The decor wasn’t unlike the lobby, and was also finished in gray tile and black granite counters. I found a bottle of club soda in the fridge and poured myself a drink before heading back to the living room. I sat down and took a sip. Richard’s gaze seemed riveted on the area rug beneath the couch and cocktail table. There was something on his mind.

  “Did Brenda say anything to you these past couple of days about Maggie and me?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed him.

  “Maggie’s pissed at me. She thinks I’m going to connect with Shelley in some kind of kinky way.”

  He looked up. “You’re kidding.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t understand her concern, but yeah, she’s freaked.”

  He shook his head and changed the subject. “I don’t want to get in your way tomorrow, but if things get too intense, I’m going to shut this whole thing down—at least so you can recoup enough to try again.”

  “I’m not looking forward to it, but it’s got to be done.”

  Richard nodded. “
Do you realize that two days from now is the anniversary of our mother’s death?”

  “Yeah. I hate the month of March. Nothing good ever happens.”

  “It was two years ago this week that you came back into my life. I think that’s something to celebrate.”

  It would never have happened if I hadn’t nearly lost my life at the hands of a couple of baseball bat-wielding thugs but, yeah, he had a point.

  “Let’s drink to that, if nothing else,” Richard said.

  And so we did.

  #

  We arrived at the police station at seven fifty-five the next morning. We’d had coffee and toasted a couple of almost-stale bagels, slathering them with cream cheese before we’d left the apartment, but we hadn’t spoken much. I didn’t know what to say. Likewise, my call to Maggie the night before had been brief with lots of things left unsaid.

  Though I’d spoken with Detective Baldwin on a number of occasions, I’d never met him in person. Because his surname was Baldwin, I guess I’d associated him with the actor Alec Baldwin, but he looked nothing like the big, charismatic guy. Instead, the police detective was rather short and thin, his gray hair thinning. He also sported a colorful bow tie, which was kind of unsettling, although I couldn’t have explained why. We shook hands and I got no kind of psychic signature from him, which was a tremendous relief.

  “This is my brother, Dr. Richard Alpert,” I said.

  Baldwin and Richard shook hands before the detective turned back to me. “I did as you asked and contacted Detectives Hayden and Wilder back in Buffalo. They seem to think you’re the real deal.”

  Thank you, Carl and Bonnie, I thought.

  “If they hadn’t spoken so highly of you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

  “I won’t mislead you. Sometimes I get stuff and sometimes I don’t. If I get nothing from what you’ve got to show me, I won’t bullshit you. I’ll go home and that will be the end of it.”

  “It’s been my experience that psychics are fakes—charlatans,” Baldwin said.

  I gave him a wan smile. “That’s been my experience, too.”