Dedication
For Nihat....
Thanks for supporting my dreams.
One
I was the unlucky one to find the body.
Neville’s apartment door was open and the light within cast a dim yellow glow across the darkened top landing. Loud opera music reached my ears and I paused to listen to the Italian soprano, straining to recognize the aria. No clue. Shame on me for forgetting all those years of music appreciation class.
I stepped into the foyer and rapped on the door even though I knew it was likely my knock couldn’t be heard over the music. No one was in the kitchen. I placed my bottle of Pinot Noir on the counter and went into the living room. Neville sat with his back to me, slumped over his desk. My eyes slid over him and took in the disarray in the room, papers strewn from wall to wall, chairs pushed aside, and a curious odor wafted into my nose.
The crescendo ended. Before the next movement could begin, I said, “Neville.” He did not respond.
“Are you sleeping?” I asked. A stirring of violins rose from the speakers. I was reluctant to walk across the room. Later, I’d think, I knew something was wrong. Why didn’t I just walk over to the desk in the first place, and shake him, or check on him? Much, much later, I’d think, oh, maybe this was what Neville meant when he said my writing was timid.
Where was the music coming from? I grumbled, now that the volume was approaching screech level again. And that smell: it was not the usual aroma that engulfed a person upon arriving at the Charles Street apartment. Neville had his pugs, Bess and Harry, and then he and his partner adopted Amantha, the baby-from-hell whose constant state of agitation wore out everyone around her. A general smell of wet dog and diaper ammonia pervaded the small apartment, sometimes combined with the curries that Kenneth liked to whip up for dinner, but this smell was…earthier, and my hand pinched my nose as I ventured further into the living room.
One inner wall of the room, on my left, was covered in bookcases, ornate and polished and filled to the brim with dusty volumes of fiction and poetry. On the opposite side, the front wall featured a bow window with a delightful cushioned seat that was never used because it was the preferred domain of the pugs. The wall nearest the kitchen, on my right, was rough plaster, painted a lush salmon color and broken up by several nude portraits of young men who’d posed for Kenneth when he was actively pursuing his painting career. And the far wall, where Neville’s desk was tucked, was red brick surrounding a marble fireplace, fenced off by a hideous plastic igloo since the baby had started crawling.
Under the all the sheets of paper, I knew there was a couch, some careworn upholstered chairs, a coffee table scarred with rings from years of abuse, and an Oriental carpet that may have been valuable at one time, perhaps twenty years ago. Hoping to disrupt the least amount of detritus, I took large steps to cross the room, paused to hit the “off” button when I saw the small iTunes Music Box on the hearth, and ended up at Neville’s left side.
Here, the smell was strong. Feces. I tried to breathe shallowly. There was something else. A brown stain ran down his right arm, so I stepped behind him to see more clearly.
“Neville?” My voice echoed in the now-quiet room. I watched him for a moment and realized that he wasn’t breathing. I bent forward to look at his face, forehead flat against the desk. His eyes were open. His mouth was open. Blood had bubbled onto the papers on the blotter.
“I have to leave,” I said. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
Icy tendrils clutched my throat. I closed my eyes, and put my left hand on something to steady myself as I felt the room spin. Oh no, I thought, I’m going to be sick. I opened my eyes and looked around for the waste basket, just in time to vomit my Happy Burger into it. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, and stood up straight. Time rushed like water—some flowing quickly around me, whispering “He’s dead. You’re in trouble. Run, run, run!”—and another current slid lazily at my feet, where things moved in slow motion. “How long have I been standing here? I should call the police. I wonder how long he’s been dead.”
I realized I was holding onto Neville’s shoulder. Blood…I yanked my hand back and wiped it on the side of my pants. At that moment something caught my eye—and almost simultaneously I heard sirens approaching the building. In his neck, a short handled knife stuck awkwardly out to the side. Its jewels sparkled in the deep patina of old gold.
In its handle several small, dark stones, rubies and sapphires, were inlaid around a pear-shaped diamond. Its size was diminutive, like the pocket knife one might give a child. The width of the entire knife was not more than an inch, its length perhaps four or five inches. I knew the blade was long enough to slice through the flesh and tendons of the neck and to sever the jugular—the evidence of that had spilled into Neville’s lap, which was dark and metallic with blood.
I blinked, still breathing shallowly. I found myself reaching for it. I knew without a doubt what that piece of metal would feel like in my hand, how its curve would fit along my palm, and how the gems warmed the gold until it practically glowed there. Yes, it fit perfectly in a woman’s hand, slid neatly inside a boot, and lay warmly in a pocket. I had known this knife a long, long time before, in a place far from New York City. I knew what it felt like to plunge it into something solid and twist…I quickly moved my clenched fist back over my mouth as another wave of nausea rippled through my gut.
When I lifted my head, I heard a sound at the door, where I saw two officers standing with their guns trained on me. I raised my hands in the air slowly and followed their directions to step away from the body in the chair.
I am nothing if not obliging when I see weapons, I moved as instructed. I tried not to vomit again. My second spew fouled the papers on the floor and none of the evidence the officers were intent on preserving.
“Did you touch him?” the female officer asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I thought he was asleep when I first came in, and then I saw…”
“What did you touch? Where?” the male demanded. “Point to it.”
I did.
“Okay, move to the wall. Keep your hands in the air. Is that blood on your hand? Did you kill this man, miss?”
“We better pat her down, Larry,” the female said. “Just in case.”
“Yeah, you do that. I’ll call this in. And cuff her until we get some back-up over here.” He started talking into a shoulder mic, while the smaller officer poked me in the back until we were in the doorway.
My hands still in the air, I felt her smoothly run her gloved hands over my entire body. She pulled my wrists back into handcuffs and sat me in a chair. “Name?”
“Cassie Thornton,” I said. She had pulled out a pad and started writing. “That’s Professor Cassie Thornton,” I amended. “I was coming here to meet with Neville about a book I’m writing.” I might as well get in some credentials, maybe they’d take off the cuffs. They’d only been on a minute but they were damned uncomfortable.
“We had an appointment, you see, and the door was open, so I just walked in and found him like this. It’s just horrid. Shocking, really,” I said. Should I cry? I thought. Yes, that would be good. I conjured some dead kittens and tears filled my eyes. “Officer, can you get me a tissue? And perhaps loosen these handcuffs a bit?”
“Just
