Part 30 (1/2)
”Look Anton, if anyone's a.s.s is going in a sling it's yours. You neglected to tell me that Jimmy asked for me by name. This wasn't some throw-Barrett-a-bone favor. And you know what? I think that's just the tip of the iceberg.”
”What are you talking about?”
”Stay out of my way,” she warned. ”And do whatever you have to do to get a Croton bed ready for him, because when I get through that door, either he's sick and dying, or else he's somewhere he shouldn't be. And swear to G.o.d-if he is-he'll be back in Croton before nightfall.”
”Don't do this. Barrett.”
”Goodbye, Anton.” And she hung up.
Ten minutes later a team of case managers from the forensic evaluation center and a patrol car-with lights, no siren-appeared at the Martin residence. Barrett rang the buzzer as they approached.
”That's really strange,” the young Latino case manager commented. ”Jimmy doesn't go anywhere.”
”You know him?” Barrett asked.
”I'm Hector. Most of the time I'm the one who brings him his meds.” He smiled sheepishly, ”And his coffee.”
A uniformed patrolwoman came up beside Barrett. ”So what's the deal?” she asked.
Barrett quickly sketched the details, while Hector produced a set of keys. The officer gripped the fox-head doorknocker and rapped harshly. ”Police, we'd like you to open the door.”
An older couple out walking their Welsh corgi stopped and watched. The silver-haired man shook his head, said something to his wife, and then they disappeared around the corner.
”I'd better do that,” the officer told Hector, taking the keys from him. ”Stay down and away at the bottom of the stairs.” Her partner stood behind her, and unsnapped his holster.
The female officer turned the bottom lock, and was placing the key into the top one when the door opened.
The patrolman tensed, one hand on his firearm.
Jimmy, with his blond hair crumpled and dressed in a velour bathrobe and no slippers looked out over the a.s.semblage on his front stoop. ”What's going on?” he asked, looking directly at Barrett.
She walked up the stairs, her eye catching on the flash of red on his ankle bracelet. ”Why didn't you answer your phone?”
”I didn't hear it,” he replied. ”The medications make me so tired. I didn't hear a thing.”
The patrolwoman turned to Barrett. ”Everything okay?” she asked.
Barrett knew that it was anything but okay, but couldn't argue with Jimmy being right where he was supposed to be.
”Your doc was worried,” Hector interjected, coming up the stairs.
”I can see that,” Jimmy said. ”Her concern is ... admirable. But as you see I'm just fine.” He looked across the park and spied the elderly couple who were again watching, only now from behind the iron fence. ”Quite the show for the neighbors,” he commented, waving in the direction of the couple and their dog.
As he did, his sleeve slid back, revealing the soiled cuff of a white s.h.i.+rt.
”You sleep in your clothes?” Barrett asked.
”Is that a crime?” he replied.
”No, just curious.”
”Do you need us for anything else?” the female officer asked.
”No,” Barrett said, racking her brain for anything that could give them probable cause to enter the house.
Jimmy said nothing as the uniformed officers got back into their squad car and drove away.
”I should have brought your meds,” Hector commented. ”So I guess I'll see you in a little while,” and he and his partner walked off, leaving Barrett alone with Jimmy.
”So, Dr. Conyors, what brought you ringing my doorbell at such an early hour? And this isn't our day, is it?”
”I think you know.”
”Do I? And where's your lovely brooch? And for that matter, what happened to Detective Hobbs?”
Barrett seethed; she felt him toying with her, trying to get her to break down, but even more than her anger was a paralyzing fear that kept her rooted to the ground, as she stared into the glittering blue of his eyes.
”Black suits you,” he continued. ”Could I offer you some coffee? I find that I can't get started without some.”
”I know you've been going out, Jimmy.”
”Prove it. Or is that what you were trying to do? And here I am, just where I'm supposed to be. You must be disappointed. But I don't want to stand out here; I've given the neighbors enough for the week. You sure I can't offer you anything? Oh, but that's right, you don't like to meet with me alone, and I don't see Officer-I mean Detective-Hobbs and his sidekick,” he stepped back into his doorway, shadows curtained his face.
Barrett knew that Anton would skewer her with the morning's events, but that's not what drove her up the last step and across the threshold. All she could think about was Justine, and the awful possibility that Jimmy knew what had happened to her.
”Coffee would be nice,” she said, breathing Jimmy's acrid sweaty scent, and realizing that he'd been exerting himself.
”I'm glad,” he shut the door behind her and turned the locks, ”there's so much we have to discuss.”
TWENTY-FIVE.
”Do you smoke?” Barrett asked, tensing as Jimmy bolted the door.
”No, why? Would you like to?” he straightened to his full height, his body not three feet from hers.
Barrett thought about her mother, waiting up for a teenage Barrett to come home from a party. ”Have you been drinking?” she'd ask. ”Have you been drinking, Jimmy?”
”Of course not,” he answered. ”I'm not allowed. But let's have that coffee.” He disappeared through a doorway to the right; Barrett followed. She felt like a frightened Alice following the rabbit down the hole, only instead of opium-smoking caterpillars, she had a murderous cellist.
He led her through a serving room off the banquet-sized dining room and from there into the kitchen. She took in her surroundings, realizing that his kitchen was larger than her entire co-op. ”You have a beautiful house,” she commented, struggling to keep her fear in check and trying to find some topic for conversation that wouldn't set him off.
”Thanks, not that I had anything to do with it.”
An odd thought occurred to her, ”How do you keep it clean? I never see any servants.”
”I do it myself ... I don't like having strangers in my house, and besides, I've got plenty of time.”