All of Us (ARC) Read online

  cast downward. This is something she must do, move her

  family through this artery at this time, she absorbs the ire, even a half-whispered comment designed to be overheard:

  “Children having children. Why do they come here?”

  I see her and I see us, every day a struggle far from any

  homeland, much too young to be so weary. I want to reach

  out, to offer my hope, a gift, finally, in a land where nothing is freely given. I don’t, I can’t, I won’t. I ride to my stop, get off, climb the stairs, take a second to absorb the angled sunlight, and walk away.

  There’s a man standing at the bottom of the steps in front

  of my building—a cop, it’s obvious—probably the young

  one described in Kirk’s memo. Kirk left out the part about

  the wide shoulders and narrow hips, the hawk’s nose, the

  tan skin, the narrow dark eyes that reach into me, search-

  ing, searching, searching until finally they reveal a flicker of doubt. Who am I? Not the Carolyn Grand he met yesterday morning, but who is he dealing with, what crazed entity

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  does he intend to question? I feel sorry for him, so bewil-

  dered in a profession where confidence is the key to success.

  I stop when he glides into my path. “And you are?” I

  demand.

  A smile starts, then just as quickly stops and I know

  he’s aware, however dimly, of our diagnosis. No details, of

  course, what with patients entitled to confidentiality, but a rough diagnosis, the same diagnosis that’s followed us for

  the past fifteen years, multiple personality, batshit crazy.

  “Detective second-grade Bobby Ortega.” The smile finally

  makes its all the way to his face. Whatever he’s thinking, it amuses him. He offers his hand and I take it, imagining the

  emotions and sensations sure to flow through Eleni’s mind

  and body when she finally meets him, his smile so much

  younger than I expect.

  “And you are?” he says.

  Ortega’s testing the waters, but I’m not a fish and I don’t

  swim into view. I answer without hesitation. “Carolyn

  Grand.”

  “I knocked on your door, but there was no one home.”

  I hear Victoria, her tone sharp: Don’t tell him anything.

  Don’t be an idiot.

  “I spent the afternoon on Coney Island with the ocean,

  the cool breeze, the rides, and the people, a bubbling stew

  that only became more and more flavorful as the time

  passed.”

  His smile jumps to a full laugh, but his eyes remain cold

  and calculating. “You’re trying too hard,” he says.

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  “Or not hard enough.” I shift my weight, prepared to

  walk around him. “What do you want of me? How can I be

  of service?”

  “Well, when I notified you of your father’s murder . . .”

  The sharp edge he puts to the word “murder” places me

  on notice. I think he means to frighten me, but in this case I have the perfect alibi.

  “You told me,” he continues, “that you were home that

  evening and all night. Can you tell me exactly when you

  arrived home?”

  “I can’t.”

  His eyebrows rise. “You can’t?” he repeats.

  “No, I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I didn’t exist.”

  Again he smiles, again the hopeful smile of a very young

  child, mischievous, genuinely amused. He steps out of my

  way, then continues speaking as I climb the stoop. “Funny

  thing, Ms. Grand, but I’ve made a hundred notifications over the years and the first thing family members want to know

  is how it happened. The only people who don’t ask, in my

  experience, are people who already know.”

  There’s nothing to be gained from this encounter. I pass

  by, up the steps, through the door, and into the hallway.

  Doyle stands next to Marshal by the elevator. They look at

  me and laugh.

  “You meet the cop?” Doyle’s arms are folded above his

  sagging belly.

  “Yes.”

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  “Know what he wanted?” He points to the security cam-

  era over the elevator doors. “He wanted the data, night

  before yesterday, from six at night until six in the morning.

  Pushy, too, the asshole.”

  I’m not good at lying and I didn’t lie to Detective Ortega,

  which means exactly nothing because if one of us killed our

  father, all will be punished.

  “Did you give it to him?”

  “Nothin’ to give, Serena,” Marshal says, the sound of my

  name on his lips comforting. “The system hasn’t worked in

  five years. I offered to repair it when I first moved in, but Nazari told me that he wasn’t putting out one dime to fix a system that he knew didn’t work when he bought the building.”

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ELENI

  I’m not big on asking why and I don’t ask this time. It’s eight o’clock in the morning and I’m off to keep our day-after-Daddy’s-murder appointment with the dear doctor. Lucky

  him, lucky me. I’ve been looking forward to the challenge

  for a long time.

  There’s nobody around for once, nobody to pepper me

  with advice. There’s only Doyle. He’s preparing the garbage

  for pickup, moving small bags of trash into larger bags. The job is unpleasant enough, even when it’s cool. At the end

  of August, after a few days in the sun, the stink is almost

  visible.

  As I pass, Doyle stops what he’s doing and stares at me, a

  wet bag of garbage in one hand. But he doesn’t say anything

  until I’m ten feet away. Then he empties the contents of his heart.

  “At least I’m not crazy.”

  I shake my ass at him and keep on going.

  Most men, like Doyle, are afraid of me. Most women hate

  me. I’m too much of a challenge for the man who does your

  taxes and yet I’m the focus of his erotic fantasies. Me and

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  women like me. That’s fine by Eleni Grand. I have little interest in women—my sisters are hassle enough—and I want to

  eliminate the incompetent. Maybe that’s what happens when

  you only get laid every three weeks, all that pent-up demand.

  I’m guessing the man who steps out of the dear doctor’s

  office building isn’t afraid of me—or anyone. He’s wearing

  a suit and tie, the suit tan, the tie only a shade darker. His stride, as he turns toward me, is perfectly balanced. Not cat-like, not artificial, but naturally light. His expression projects the same attitude. Entirely in control, yet entirely relaxed.

  No worries in the world. And if the planes of his brow and

  jaw are a bit too strong, I’m encouraged by a line of pits in the hollow beneath his cheekbones, the remnants of a long-vanquished acne. His self-confidence has been earned, not

  given.

  Right away, I’m thinking to hell with the dear d
octor. It’s

  been . . . I have to think for a moment before I can put a time to when I last felt the touch of a man. More than two weeks

  since I lay next to a lover, physically spent, only to have him roll onto one arm and gently kiss me on the mouth. Too

  long, too long.

  The tender caress of a man is something the prunes have

  never known. Not from the day they were born. Never.

  “Ms. Grand?”

  My brain doesn’t want to let go of the fantasy and I freeze

  for a few seconds before I recall the memo left by Serena. The man is a cop, the one who confronted Serena last night. She

  described him as “intimidating,” but I’ve been with enough

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  cops to know the front they project comes of long practice.

  If you know which buttons to push, you can get behind it.

  “And you are?” I ask.

  The question provokes a smile. “I think I heard this song

  before. Last night, in fact.”

  “You’ll probably hear it again before you’re through.

  My apologies, but we’re crazy, which I suppose you already

  know, being as you’ve spoken to our therapist.”

  He doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, still smiling, he extends a hand, palm up. “Detective Ortega, at your service.”

  He clasps my hand, his touch as gentle as it is erotic. The

  prick intends it, too. I can see it in his eyes, in his soft smile, a challenge to equal my own. I’m not playing anymore.

  There’s no point.

  I finally remember the name Serena included in her

  memo. Bobby Ortega. I lift my head and his eyes lock on

  to mine. He’s not trying to dominate me, just taking a hard

  look. I leave my palm in his hand for a second too long, then glance at my watch. His eyes dip, then rise, nose to toes and back again. I’m wearing a sheer white blouse and my blue

  skirt is just tight enough to provide my butt with the small lift it needs. I’m thirty-seven, with enough bulges and sags to prove it. Attractive is the aim these days, not teenage street hooker.

  Ortega’s smile expands and he says, “I’m glad I ran into

  you, Ms. Grand. I was going to stop by your apartment any-

  way. Now I can save myself the trip. Your father’s body hasn’t been formally identified and I’m hoping you’ll come to the

  morgue this afternoon, around three.”

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  I don’t give a shit about my father’s body. What I’m won-

  dering is whether the cop does either. His tone is steady

  enough, but the smile tells another story. I read that smile as a question I could answer now, but where’s the fun in that?

  “It’s too hot to take the subway. You’d have to pick me up,

  drive me there and back.”

  “I will, definitely. And I appreciate the favor.”

  I’ve been with quite a few cops. They make good lov-

  ers, the ones I’ve picked out at least. They’re aggressive, but never cross the line between forceful and forced. Now I’m

  looking at Ortega the way he’s looking at me. I’m measuring

  the swell of his chest, the flat belly, the smooth line from his lower ribs to his hips. All that concealed power.

  Victoria’s voice sounds in my ear at that moment, as if

  she’d been there all along. “Are you crazy? We’re suspects in a murder he happens to be investigating?”

  I make the same answer I’ve been making for years. No

  risk, no reward.

  “Around three? Consider it done?”

  He smiles and steps aside. “I assume you have an appoint-

  ment with Dr. Halberstam.”

  “Sad, but true.” I walk past him, then turn into the

  entrance to Halberstam’s building. I’m not expecting any-

  thing beyond a careful scrutiny of my ass, but Ortega ups

  the stakes.

  “Were you at the Golden Inn Hotel last night?” he asks.

  I understand the question to be part of the challenge—

  in his eyes, in mine. Foreplay with a razor’s edge. “Is that where he was killed?”

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  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I couldn’t have been there.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I didn’t exist.”

  “That’s another one I heard yesterday.”

  I open the door and step inside before he can ask a follow-

  up question, one I’d prefer not to answer: Have you ever been to the Golden Inn Hotel?

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ELENI

  Only Serena got it right. Victoria, Martha, even Kirk,

  they all missed. Dear doctor’s stare isn’t predatory or

  piercing. He’s trying much too hard for that. No, his stare

  is supremely artificial and I know, like Serena instinctively knew, that he passed his adolescence dreaming of girls

  he never had the courage to approach. Halberstam’s the

  ultimate nerd, the one who stood by the fence at the back

  of the schoolyard. Now he’s got real power. Now he’s

  dangerous. Now he’s out to get even.

  I’d be afraid, but I don’t do fear.

  I’m in the chair described by my brother and sisters. The

  submissive chair. Fine with me. I allowed my dress to slide

  up a bit when I sat down, so now, with my legs crossed, I

  know he can track the underside of my thighs almost to the

  swell of my ass. I’ve pulled my shoulders back as well. We

  don’t have the biggest boobs in town, but an asset’s an asset.

  I watch the disappointment build as he continues to stare

  at me. I’ve offered a dare he hasn’t the courage to accept and we both know it. We both know that I’ve measured him out,

  that I’ve found him wanting just like every other woman in

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  his life. Kirk was an idiot to suggest we keep the dear doctor in line with sex. No, the dear doctor’s a walking billboard for erectile dysfunction related to performance anxiety. I need

  to lead him to a line he can’t cross. Lead him to the line, but keep him on the safe side. That way he can go home with his

  fantasies intact.

  I find myself considering Bobby Ortega, wondering if

  there’s a challenge he won’t accept. Wondering if there’s

  a challenge he’s prepared to offer that I’d refuse. Finally, a thought wiggles its way into my horny brain. Ortega knows

  who we are, knows the woman he met last night, Serena,

  is not the woman he met this morning. He knows and he

  doesn’t care. This is new for me and I feel exposed as never before, exposed and vulnerable. I recall asking a man I met

  at a street fair if he’d like some crazy sex. I might have asked Ortega the same question in the same words, the meanings

  entirely different. He’s promised to pick me up at three—a

  trip to the morgue—but if I have my way, the two of us will

  never leave the apartment.

  “Am I finally speaking to Eleni?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I should tell you, right away, that I was just visited by a policeman, a detective who claimed to be investigating the

  murder of your father. Yet here yo
u sit, as if your father’s death means nothing at all. Nothing positive, nothing nega-tive. You’re not happy, you’re not sad.”

  “Family relations . . . not my focus. As for his murder,

  well sometimes bad things do happen to bad people.”

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  “Really? Well, we can talk about that later on. Your

  reaction.” He turns to a notebook on his desk, thumbs

  through the pages, lays it flat. “This is our first meeting, Eleni, and it’s been long in coming. Too long, considering

  that you’re the one who precipitated the events that brought Carolyn Grand to my office. Victoria, for instance, at our first meeting, told me that you were ‘promiscuous.’” He stops to

  review his notes for a moment. “And Martha didn’t deny that

  you were promiscuous. No, she defended your right to be

  promiscuous, as so many New York women are. Now I want

  to hear it from you and please keep your account accurate.

  Let me add that the police investigating your father’s murder have also contacted the court and the physicians on the board are very nervous. So . . .”

  He lays his elbows on the desk and leans forward, his

  genial expression in sharp contrast to the threat he deliv-

  ered. But Martha was right to defend me. I did nothing to be ashamed of.

  “Except for a few isolated hours,” I begin, my tone sultry,

  “I’d been out of the body for more than a week before I took full possession. You can feel that. You can know you’ll be

  around for a while. So, I was especially horny and I had the time and”—I lean forward, just a bit—“I left our apartment

  fully expecting to get laid. That’s about as raw as I can make it. My first preference was for one of the after-work bars

  near Wall Street. That wasn’t happening, because it was the

  end of the month and we were broke, as usual. So, I decided

  to walk around a bit, take my chances, hope for the best.

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  Maybe twenty minutes later, I see the cop, or the guy who

  turned out to be a cop, leaning against the wall of a bodega on President Street.”

  I’m about to describe his appearance—about thirty-five,

  suitably trim and rugged—when I realize that I’d describe