Death Trance Read online

  There was pounding at the door, and a voice screaming, “Alex! Alex, what's going on? Alex?”

  At the top of my lungs, I shouted, “Call the police! There's a goddamned burglar in here!”

  I heard her kicking at the door, then nothing. Gone to the phone. Gone for a neighbor. Hurry, I thought, hurry!

  In the faint light of the room, I danced a backward quick-step as the guy came at me. It was hopeless, I knew, but he kept coming and left me no choice. I had to fight just to defend myself. So when he jabbed the lamp at me, I dodged it, tried to grab his arm. He pulled back, coiled himself, swung the lamp, and I hopped backward and onto the mattress as the thing went wind-screaming past.

  The tangled sheets were like a mass of angry snakes coiling around my feet and ensnaring me. I kicked, sensed my balance leaving me. That's when he came at me again. Even with my arms nailing, paddling, to keep me upright, there wasn't much I could do. He knew he had me, and he pulled the lamp back, swung it sideways, then hurled it right at my side. I raised my left arm, which broke the thrust of the blow. But it still bit hard, cracking against my forearm, then coming to a dead stop against my ribs. My vision exploded black, and I screamed but nothing came out because the wind had been batted clear from my lungs. I lost my balance altogether and felt myself in freefall, dropping across the mattress, hitting the wall hard with my head, which sent a thump that echoed through my body. There was another burst of darkness, then some light and I looked up, saw this L’eggs-masked vision towering over me, ready to pounce. He froze when he heard the pounding of fists against the door. I couldn't rise. Couldn't defend myself anymore. And there were voices. More than Toni's. Two or three people. I wanted to shut my eyes, shut everything out, but I knew I couldn't because I had to stay awake, clutch onto consciousness and try to protect myself.

  Suddenly there was a thunk of something falling, and my eyes popped open. The lamp was on the floor, the burglar halfway out the window. I saw him, just the last of his black jeans and high-tops, yet I didn't move because I hurt like hell, and what did it matter if dead Liz's apartment had been robbed? Not much, really, so I simply lay there until Toni and the caretaker named John kicked down the door.

  Chapter 7

  We called 911, and as we waited for the police, Toni and I turned on a couple of lights, opened the shades, and sat in the living room. John, pale and tall and with a generous gut on him, stood in the open doorway. I stared at him, a big guy with a big face and balding, reddish hair, and I was glad he'd been around. Wearing a blue plaid shirt, jeans, and some old brown shoes that were all cracked and split, he looked as if he'd come from the north woods or perhaps the Iron Range.

  “I wonder if I should call the owner,” he said, touching his bottom lip. “I wonder what I should do.”

  “If you don't call her,” said Toni, “the police probably will.”

  “Think so?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He paused, then said, “I was sorry to hear about your sister.”

  Toni looked at the floor, nodded.

  “She was real pretty. She played her stereo real loud, but that was okay because I—” John heard the first scream of a siren, leaned his big, puffy body toward the window, and announced, “Here come the cops. You don't need to tell them I was here, do you?”

  Turning to him, Toni asked, “What were you going to say about Liz?”

  “Nothing. Listen, I'm late for work, and the phone company don't like it when their repairmen are tardy, you know?”

  “But—”

  “I really gotta go. There's some phone lines down in north Minneapolis. A real mess, I guess. See ya,” mumbled John, tugging on his lower lip and backing out.

  I looked again at this guy with the disheveled reddish hair, and wondered when he'd last seen Liz and if the cops had bothered to talk to him about her death. Could that be why he was eager to avoid the police now? Had they given him a hard time? Before I could ask, though, John had slipped away.

  Within the minute the cops dashed up the walk, started banging on the outer door. Toni let them in, escorted them into the apartment. Two of them, a Scando-looking blond guy, tall and wispy, and a woman cop, black, round face with large, smart-looking eyes. I pointed toward the bedroom, told them how the intruder had fled out the back window.

  “Kind of tall,” I described the guy.

  “Race?” asked the Scando cop.

  “White.”

  “Clothing?” asked the black woman.

  “Um… black T-shirt. Black jeans, too.”

  “Hair?”

  I drew a complete blank. “I don't know.”

  The white cop asked, “Bald?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  They moved quickly, the woman cop hurrying out the back door of the apartment and into the alley. The other cop dashed to the front to his throbbing auto, where he barked the problem and the description of the suspect into the radio. Moving just as rapidly, Toni went to her white leather purse, took out a small calendar, cracked it open, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.

  “Detective Tom Jenkins,” she said into the receiver.

  A voice blathered something that Toni didn't care for.

  “No, you have to interrupt him,” she insisted. “Tell him Toni Domingo's on the line. Tell him someone just broke into my sister's apartment and we were assaulted.”

  That did the trick, she got this Jenkins on the line, explained what had happened, and then she hung up.

  Turning to me, Toni said, “He was the detective assigned to my sister's death. He said he'd be right here.”

  As we sat there, my shock began to cool and suddenly I began to ache with pain. I hadn't been in a fight since grade school—I'd duked it out with some tubby bully whose name I'd long ago forgotten—and I didn't really much care for it. I was appreciating the American penchant for violence less and less the older I got.

  “I think the arm's okay,” said Toni, probing my body with doctorly fingers that I found erotic even in my pain.

  “What about the head?” I asked.

  She ran her hand through my thick, curly hair, hit upon a hell of a sizzling egg, and said, “No, you're just as thick-skulled as ever.”

  She hugged me once, apologized, kissed me, so it was almost worth the pain. I could tell, though, that her thoughts were elsewhere, specifically on Liz and this break-in and if there was some sort of connection.

  Even though the police soon had assistance, it was hopeless. The intruder had escaped. He was quick and scared, of course, and so, some fifteen minutes later, sus-pectless, the two cops returned. Toni told them that she'd called one of their cohorts, a detective, and he was on the way because this was potentially related to her sister's murder—Toni definitely said murder, which definitely raised their brows—and then they asked questions. Not too many, just enough for their own reports, knowing this was a matter that the detective would assume.

  Which he did. Detective Tom Jenkins arrived about twenty-five minutes after Toni had called, a confident guy, white, mid-forties, with receding dark, grayish hair. He looked like a former jock who probably once had broad shoulders and a trim waist, though things were now a bit the opposite, the waist looking a little bigger than the shoulders. He reminded me of one of my high school teachers whose name also was Tom. Jenkins had the same thick eyebrows, brown eyes, and easy smile, and he even looked as if he could solve our problems as simply as my teacher had once solved those math problems.

  He introduced himself to Toni, and said, “It's finally nice to meet you in person.”

  She shrugged, shook her head. “Yeah, well…” she said, insinuating this wasn't the meeting she'd had in mind.

  I gathered from their initial words that they'd only talked over the phone, that they had an appointment for tomorrow, and that, of course, he'd investigated Liz's death. It was also evident that Toni wasn't entirely satisfied or that she was frustrated or angry at him. Something like that. Something like he
subscribed to the theory that Liz's death was nothing more than suicide.

  Detective Jenkins spent a few minutes with the other two police officers, who told Jenkins what they'd found —essentially nothing—and then offered a couple of extra opinions. I heard the word “murder” muttered, saw the black woman eye Toni as the source of this information, and then I saw Jenkins give a slight but obvious shrug, making it clear that this was a matter of opinion and not fact. I glanced at Toni, who was following every syllable and body movement with angry interest.

  Jenkins came over, sat down on a chair across from the ratty couch we were perched on.

  “This might be connected to your sister, Toni,” he began, “but it might very well not be. It could have been your average burglar. Just remember, this has been an unoccupied apartment for several weeks. Someone could have been watching it.”

  “Yeah, but…” replied Toni.

  “Pulled shades and closed curtains are a dead giveaway,” he was quick to interject.

  Not to mention, I thought, packed mailboxes. That, however, I didn't mention, for I was determined to be one hundred percent on Toni's side.

  Jenkins took out a yellow pad. “So tell me what happened.”

  Rubbing my head, I said, “I surprised some moron in the bedroom. Or rather, he surprised me and did some damage my way before escaping out the back.”

  “Go back earlier. Start from the moment you came in.”

  Toni took over, said how she'd been here a few hours earlier but had stayed only briefly. She described me as an old friend, nothing more, and explained how she'd come over to my place and asked me to accompany her. Which, of course, I did. So we'd come back, and…

  “What about the door?” he asked. “Any sign of forced entry?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I was the one who unlocked it. It seemed fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Close your eyes and picture it again.”

  I took a deep breath, and as if it were nothing more than a slide, I flashed the image of that door before my mind's eye. I saw everything. Brass knob. Keyhole. Even the wooden trim alongside the door.

  “I'm positive. The door was pulled shut and locked.” I motioned toward the door. “There weren't any signs that it was pried open, either. The paint and wood weren't dinged up at all—go ahead and check if you want.”

  The detective declined for now, and we continued with our story, Toni saying how she'd pretty much stopped in the living room and I had continued into the back. I thought I'd heard a noise, I explained, so I'd kept going, continuing all the way to the bedroom, where I saw an open window.

  “How far open was it?” asked Jenkins.

  “Ah, I don't know.”

  “Slow things down, look at the shade blowing, see the window handle, be there completely.”

  I thought back, remembered seeing the bottom of the window outlined against the shade as it blew back and forth, said, “About six, eight inches. No more.”

  “If that's how he came in,” speculated Jenkins, “maybe he lowered the window behind him so as not to attract attention. Did you notice if the screen was on?”

  I shook my head. That I hadn't seen, I was sure, because the shade had been pulled down over the window.

  Then I recounted how the bedroom door had been closed and locked behind me, I had turned, seen this thug. I described him. Shut my eyes, breathed deeply, ran the scene in slo-mo so that I could reveal every little detail. Jenkins wrote it all down, clothing, height, that the burglar might have been bald, everything. I talked on, right up to the flight of the intruder out the window.

  “Well,” said Jenkins, “I don't know. I'll dust for fingerprints, perhaps we'll get a match. Can you tell if any-thing's missing?”

  We all glanced around, saw the TV still sitting there, the CD player, the CDs. Even a camera. A small black camera sitting on a bricks-and-board bookshelf.

  “Nothing's gone,” said Toni, clearly not buying Jenkins's angle. “So it might not have been a burglar. Maybe he wasn't looking for anything to steal.”

  Jenkins suggested, “Or perhaps he just hadn't made his way to the living room yet.”

  “But the burglar did have something. What was it, Alex?”

  It popped into my head. Papers or whatever. Right. The intruder had been holding something.

  “Wait,” I said, “he had something in his hands. Some papers.” I could picture it now. “It was a folder or… or a notebook.” I closed my eyes. Concentrate. Think. Remember. Go back, I told myself, to that moment and freeze the scene so you can study it. “That's what it was,” I said, seeing it now in my memory and for the first time clearly. “A white notebook—maybe a spiral one—with some papers tumbling out. That's what it was.”

  I looked up to see both Toni and Jenkins staring at me. All of us disappeared into silent thought. A notebook? Why in hell would some guy break into an apartment to steal a notebook?

  “Are you sure about that?” asked Jenkins.

  I nodded. “Positive.”

  Toni said, “God, you don't think it could've been one of Liz's poetry manuscripts, do you? She was always carrying around a spiral notebook to write in.”

  “I've heard of weirder things.” A moment later Jenkins put his pen away and rose. “I'm going to check out the bedroom, dust the window for fingerprints, and look for this notebook. Don't worry, I'll do what I can to get this figured out.”

  Toni reached for her purse, saying, “When you're finished, I want to show you the letter Liz wrote me. The one I told you about.”

  Jenkins sighed, said, “Okay, but then tomorrow I want you to go see her shrink.”

  “I still think she was murdered,” said Liz, firmly.

  “Believe me, I'm aware of that. As I told you over the phone, however, all the evidence we've gathered supports suicide.”

  There was one thing I didn't understand, and I asked, “What about the coroner's report? I mean, there was an autopsy, wasn't there?”

  “Yeah, but…” muttered Jenkins.

  Toni bowed her head, ran a hand through her thick hair, said, “Go ahead, tell him.”

  Jenkins eyed Toni, then reported, “The body got caught in one of the locks on the Mississippi. It was down there, hung up on a hinge, for almost four days until the gates finally jammed up. By the time the corpse was found it was severely mangled. The autopsy results were inconclusive.”

  “Oh.”

  Toni stared blankly ahead. “We knew she was missing, so I came up here. After they pulled out the body, I did the initial identification from a scrap of clothing. It was a blouse I'd given her—one of mine that didn't fit. A blue thing with stripes. The only way they got a positive ID was from her dental records.”

  I sat there, silent, wishing I hadn't asked, and now unable to stop myself from picturing a body crushed in the jaws of those enormous gates. Huge, meat-grinding gates powerful enough to block the flow of the mighty Mississippi.

  “Well…” Jenkins moved on, motioning toward the bedroom. “We get a lot of break-ins around here, so be warned it could've been just a neighborhood punk who crawled through an unlocked window.”

  I cleared my throat, looked at Toni, and suggested, “Or it could have been someone Liz knew who came here looking for something specific.” Then I turned to Jenkins. “Someone who knew Liz well enough that he wouldn't have had to break in through a window.”

  Toni eyed me. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we're assuming he broke in, but couldn't the jerk have had a key and just let himself in?”

  And by the way Jenkins was staring at me, face long and flat, eyes glaring, I knew that was exactly the kind of grist he didn't want to mill.

  Chapter 8

  After the cops had left, after Jenkins had dusted for prints and was on his way, after we had locked up Liz's apartment, I suggested we go for coffee or wine or something, anything, where the two of us could just sit and perhaps catch up. Maybe even linger over memories.


  “I haven't seen you in so long,” I began as we both climbed into my Honda. “We need to catch up.”

  As soon as we were in the car, I could tell that it wasn't going to happen. Not yet, anyway. Toni was leaning away from me, pressing herself up against the door, and she had one hand to her forehead and was looking out, away. Okay, I got the picture.

  Toni said, “Alex, I know we have a lot of ground to go over, but I can't. Not tonight.” She turned and reached over and touched my arm. “I'm sorry, I just can't tonight. You understand, don't you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Besides, you should get some rest. How do you feel?”

  The aches mostly annoying, so I said, “Not bad.”

  “Good.”

  She offered a small smile, her thin lips parting, exposing her front teeth, one of which was chipped at the corner. I'd never seen anyone else with a tooth just like that, a little angle of it missing, and the very sight of it took me back even more than the touch of her hand. Way back. She was a good kisser. I was a good kisser.

  Together we'd done very well and very much of that kind of stuff.

  “Sorry you got beat up,” she went on. “You were wonderful to drop everything and come over here tonight.”

  Tonight. Sunday night. Wasn't I supposed to be doing something other than this? I looked at my watch.

  “Oh, shit,” I said, realizing it was already ten.

  “What?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  Karen, who I was supposed to have taken out for Thai food, probably wouldn't speak to me again, not after I'd stood her up on our first date. On the other hand, with Toni back, that might perhaps be a moot point. I was determined to find out if it was.

  “Listen,” I began, “I've been working a lot recently and I've got some comp time. I'd like to take tomorrow off and spend it with you.”

  “Alex, that's really sweet of you, but I've got so much to do. I'm going to have to try and see Liz's therapist sometime, hopefully in the morning. And at some point I'll have to come back over here and make a start at going through Liz's things.”