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  Yes, he realized it was an absurdly stupid and risky thing to do, and he knew Phil would probably strangle him if he learned what he planned, but he had to do this. He had to learn something about this woman, something—he was almost ashamed to be thinking this—bad. All he wanted was for someone to let him know, just hint, that Kelly Wade had a long history of being a flake and a floozy and everybody had known that she was bound to come to a bad end someday.

  That might not help him sleep at night. It might not make him forget that last look she had on her face, but it was a start.

  And it didn't have to be all that risky. Not if he concocted a neat little story to explain his interest in Kelly Wade should anyone ask.

  Ed leaned back in the chair and began inventing.

  February 8

  10:20 A.M.

  Rob Harris lit a cigarette and stared out at the Sunday morning sky. With his head propped up against the headboard he lay stretched out in his bed, thinking about where he'd been the past few years and where he might be headed—and not too crazy about either.

  He looked around at the faded wallpaper which had been here since he'd moved all his second-hand furniture from his old west side digs after Tony had gone and got himself married. To the best of his knowledge, this was the first time he had looked—really looked—at the room.

  Who lives here? he wondered.

  There wasn't a picture on the walls, not a photo on the dresser. A motel room had more personality.

  Where have I been?

  He'd been to work and back, and that was about it. He'd put so much into the Job that he hadn't left much of a mark anywhere else. The only thing he had changed here was the kitchen, and that had been minimal, making space for some of the specialized utensils he'd picked up over the years. But the rest of the apartment? He'd seen flop houses with more character.

  Marking time, that was what he seemed to be doing. Why? Waiting for what? For Kara to come back?

  He flung that thought away. Ludicrous. He hadn't been saving himself for Kara. There'd been plenty of women since Kara. He glanced at the sleeping form beside him. Like Connie, for instance.

  But it occurred to him that Kara had done a hell of a lot more than he with their ten years apart. She'd been married, had a child, graduated from college, and had a book in the works. Rob had had the job when she'd left, and he still had the job. Nothing more. He felt… jealous.

  The thought of Kara brought Kelly to mind, and with her came the thought that he should have gone to the funeral yesterday. Even though Kara had let him know in no uncertain terms that he wasn't needed there in rural, Pennsylvania, and it might have been uncomfortable, he still felt he should have shown up. He'd had little or no contact with Kelly since her sister had dropped him ten years ago, but he felt he owed it to her to stand by her grave and say a prayer.

  "What a jerk," he said aloud.

  Next to him in the bed, Connie mumbled and turned onto her back. The movement exposed her right breast, pink and ample. Rob watched the dark nipple rise in the cool air of the bedroom. Connie squirmed, then pulled the covers up to her neck.

  Rob leaned back with his hands behind his head and continued his rumination on being a jerk. Mostly it had to do with loyalty. He couldn't get past this feeling that he had some sort of obligation to be there for everyone he knew or with whom he'd ever had a potential relationship. Like Kelly Wade.

  Jerk. Why was he lying here thinking about her on a Sunday morning? Did she come around to help him over the rough days and weeks and months he'd had after Kara left him? No. Oh, they'd had lunch together a couple of times and she'd tried to explain Kara's refusal to return his calls or letters, but in general she'd avoided him, going about her business without worrying too much about Rob Harris. So why did he feel he should be at her funeral ten years later?

  Because you're a cop and she died in your city.

  Bull. It wasn't his city. He didn't run it. And he hadn't dressed her up like a hooker and sent her trolling through the Oak Bar.

  Still, Kelly had been a good kid. She had died a scarlet woman, but Rob would always remember her as the sweet young thing of ten years ago. He smiled. Kara and Kelly Wade, the two beautiful hicks looking like they'd just stepped out of a Doublemint ad. He remembered his first glimpse of her that night at McSorley's, and how the Wade twins, with their shapely, well-turned little bodies, pale blonde hair, blue eyes, scrubbed faces, and dazzling smiles had won over that all-male hangout before they'd departed.

  You couldn't not like them. They even had a little routine: "I'm Kara, the Kelly Girl."

  "And I'm Kelly, Kara's sister." Corny and ridiculous from anyone else, but it had blown Rob away.

  And although it was almost impossible to tell them apart except for their make up—Kelly always wore more—Rob found himself immediately drawn to Kara. Something about Kara…

  Kara.

  She'd turned out to be nothing but trouble for him. Why was he thinking about Kara when there was a shapely, passionate woman curled up against him in his bed?

  Maybe because when he and Kara had been good together, it was magic. There had never been anything else quite like it for him, before or since.

  But why torture himself about it? For all the passion and intimacy and ecstasy they'd shared, there had been large counterbalancing doses of anger and shouting and pain. And when she finally called it quits, she really called it quits—completely severing herself from him, from the city, and everyone she had known here. No calls, no letters not a word. Kelly had assured him that Kara was alive and well in Elderun but that she most definitely did not want to see him any more. He hadn't believed that. He'd traveled out through Amish country, groping through the area around a place called Bird In Hand until he'd finally found the Wade family farm and pounded on the door. Her mother had let him in but Kara had refused to come downstairs. He had stubbornly waited for hours in the warm but pitying presence of Mrs. Wade, but Kara wouldn't even show her face.

  That was when it finally got through his thick Irish skull that she really and truly wanted no part of him.

  That had hurt him like never before. As if the heart had been ripped out of him, leaving him with an empty hole where it had been.

  Rob stretched. But that was all in the past now. Time heals all wounds. Or so they said.

  Kara certainly hadn't needed much time to heal. She'd bounced back and married Mr. Right. He might be dead now, but at least she'd found him.

  When's my turn? he thought. When would he find Mrs. Right, if there was such a person? Or had he already found her and let her slip away? Or was the job going to turn out to be Mrs. Right, like it had for so many cops he knew?

  He wondered how many chances you got.

  He still loved the job, but it wasn't quite the same anymore. It had been getting to him lately. The human misery he saw on a daily basis seemed to be deeper, more soul-wrenching; the scum he had to deal with seemed scummier. Was the city changing for the worse, or was it him?

  That little restaurant he and Kara had dreamed of opening was looking better and better. Even though Kara wouldn't be with him, he still wanted to give it a try. He'd put in his twenty years, then use his pension as a back-up while he made the restaurant a going thing. He just had to hold out until—

  He felt a hand slide up the inside of his thigh. He looked at Connie. She was awake and staring at him with her curly brown eyes. Her long dark hair flowed over her cheek and throat.

  "An option on your thoughts," she said.

  "Nothing. A blank."

  "Come on. Your face reminded me of the first time I made you try sushi."

  "Okay. I was thinking about a murder that maybe wasn't a murder and how I'm probably never going to know."

  "Hey, it's Sunday. You're not suppose to be thinking about work. You're supposed to be thinking about me."

  As if to emphasize that point, she ran her hand further up his thigh and began caressing him. Rob felt a faint tingle of pleasure but little
more. His usual quick response wasn't there this morning.

  "Not in the mood, huh?" Connie said after a couple of minutes.

  "Not really."

  "I hate it when you get so wrapped up in a case. You're good for nothing else when that happens."

  "And I suppose you were a barrel of laughs back in October of '87?"

  She laughed and punched him on the arm.

  He'd met Connie during a robbery investigation when he'd been assigned to the Upper West Side. Her apartment—condo, rather—was next door to the scene; she'd heard noises and knew her neighbors were in Tortola for the week, so she called the police. Rob had questioned her and learned that she was an investment banker with Saloman Brothers. A few days later she had called him back to her apartment, saying she'd remembered a few more details. She'd greeted him at the door… nude. They'd been seeing each other ever since.

  Neither of them had any illusions that this was going anywhere. There were no problems in bed. That was fine. Connie wasn't easy to keep up with, but Rob managed. It was out of bed that they ran into problems. They moved in radically different circles. Rob had taken her once to Leo's, the watering hole where most of the Midtown North cops did their post-shift relaxing. She'd loathed the place. And Rob felt far out of his depth with her yuppie friends.

  "How about going out for brunch?" she said.

  "Brunch? I don't do brunch."

  Connie hopped out of bed and went over to the mirror above the dresser. Rob had never met a woman so totally unselfconscious about nudity. Maybe that was because she had a great body and knew it. She pulled a brush out of her purse and began working on her hair.

  "Sure you do. Every time you order breakfast when you're supposed to be having lunch, you're doing brunch."

  "Oh. Okay. Let's do brunch."

  She turned to him, her eyes bright.

  "I got a great idea! We'll go to this place Pete McCarthy and I found up on Columbus Avenue.. It's called Julio's."

  "Not another yuppie eatery!"

  "No. This place is really declasse—determinedly so. It's a working man's bar left over from pre-gentrification days. It's grungy, the owner's the bartender, and the service is surly at best."

  "Doesn't sound like your kind of place."

  "It's not, but then again it is. Actually, it's a little like Leo's, but the hamburgers are great. Pete and I are keeping it a secret. We're only telling our closest friends, otherwise this place will be overrun."

  "Just what I want to do on a Sunday—listen to your friends talk about money," he said, jabbing out his cigarette. "Almost as much fun as a tetanus shot."

  "No, really." She began slipping into her bra and panties. "You'll like it."

  Rob shook his head. "Sounds like too much fun for me. I think I'll pass."

  It wasn't that he was into the anti-yuppie vogue. Sure, they seemed like a pretty empty-headed bunch, but He wasn't all too sure that if he had an income well into six figures that he wouldn't be just like them. It was just that he never seemed to have anything to say to her friends. They all liked to hear him talk about police work, but that was the last thing he wanted to discuss during his off hours.

  "No, you won't," she said as she buttoned up her silk print blouse. "You can come back to my place while I spruce up, then we'll head for Julio's."

  Rob didn't move.

  "Are you coming?"

  "No, Connie," he said. "Really. It sounds like a drag."

  Suddenly, she was angry. Her eyes flashed.

  "No! You're the drag, Rob! You've been moping around for a couple of days now! What's wrong with you?"

  The last thing Rob wanted this morning was a fight.

  "Nothing, Connie. Let's drop it, okay?"

  "Drop it?" she said. "I'll drop it! But that's not all I'm going to drop! You're no fun anymore, Rob! And you weren't so hot in bed last night either!" She turned and headed for the bedroom door. "See you in the movies, Rob!"

  "Say hello to Peter McCarthy for me," he said to her retreating back.

  A few seconds later, the walls of the apartment shook with the booming slam of the front door. Rob sighed.

  "Women."

  He lit another cigarette and stared out at the Sunday morning sky.

  February 9

  9:47 A.M.

  "It smells in here, Mom," Jill said, her nose wrinkling at the rancid odor.

  Kara coughed. "That it does, Jill. That it does."

  Smells like something died in here.

  Which wasn't a very comforting thought, seeing as this was Kelly's apartment. Kelly had given her the key years ago, telling Kara to feel free to come visit and stay any time she was in the city.

  Kara left the door open. "Wait here," she said.

  She left Jill standing in the hallway by their overnight bags while she made a quick round of the rooms. Empty. Good. No one here who shouldn't be here. The odor was strongest in the kitchen. Kara opened the door under the sink and found the cause: rotten leftover Chinese take-out in the garbage sack. She tied the bag closed and brought it out to the hall. She'd throw it away later.

  "All clear," she told Jill.

  "What was it?"

  "Week-old egg foo yung and fried rice, I think."

  "Ugh!"

  "You said it."

  Kara helped Jill off with her coat and shrugged out of her own. She felt uneasy here, like some sort of grave-robber, or a vulture picking at the bones of the dead. But something had to be rotten here besides egg foo yung. Something had gone wrong in her sister's life. Kara wanted to know what.

  She stood in the center of the main room and did a slow turn, taking in everything around her.

  So ordinary.

  Kara found that very ordinariness reassuring, but it didn't answer the questions that had brought her here.

  The furniture was a motley assortment of new and good quality used. There were a couple of original watercolors of flower-filled fields on the walls along with a few framed posters from the Metropolitan Museum's Van Gogh in Aries show. A selection of photos of Jill and Mom and Kara herself stood on one of the end tables. The big thick The Art of Walt Disney sat right where it belonged—on the coffee table. Beside it was a stack of nursing journals.

  This was the Kelly she knew. Not a swinger, not even a terribly exciting person, but a rock solid, steady, reliable professional who loved nursing and loved the throb and rattle of New York. Sweet and attractive. Although they were identical twins, Kara had always thought of Kelly as the better looking one. She'd had her love affairs, and she'd told Kara all about them when they got together. Once or twice she thought she'd found Mr. Right, but one had turned out to be not-so-Right, and the other, Tom, the most recent, had been keeping a little secret from her: his wife and child on Long Island.

  But Kelly seemed to bounce back from those traumas like she bounced back from everything. Kara had often wished she could be as flexible, as resilient as Kelly. Which was probably why Kelly had been able to stay on in New York and Kara hadn't: Kelly could accept the city on its terms, Kara could only accept it on her own.

  Which was why Kara lived in Pennsylvania and Kelly lived in New York.

  And maybe why Kelly had died in New York.

  So why am I in New York now? Kara asked herself.

  To find a reason, some sort of hook that would help her understand what had happened. Damn it, she was going to find out why and how Kelly had changed or go half crazy trying. And she was going to tear this place apart in the process.

  "When are we going to Aunt Ellen's?" Jill asked.

  "Soon, honey. I've just got to look around here for a while, okay?"

  Kara found something on the tv for the child to watch, then she headed for the bedroom. She'd start there.

  ▼

  Nothing.

  Kara had to admit her twin sister was boring. Not that that was bad. In this case, it was good. But puzzling.

  How could a woman who liked New Amsterdam Beer, read Agatha Christie, Ed Gorman and
John D. MacDonald, dressed in flannel nightgowns, and was voted Nurse of the Year at St. Vincent's twice in the last five years come to be a legend in the Oak Bar? Her major vice seemed to be Creamette pasta.

  Drugs? In the night stand drawer was a prescription bottle from a Dr. Gates labeled: "Halcion 0.25 mg. One tablet at bedtime as needed for sleep." Twenty or so blue ovals rested in the bottom of the amber plastic container. It looked as if Kelly had suffered from insomnia. That might be important, but probably not. The medicine cabinet in the bathroom yielded even less. Midol was the most potent pill there, followed by Tylenol.