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CHAPTER 7
Water ran down on the floor mat the moment I pressed the gas pedal. It’s amazing how much water gets on you when you try to put out a fire. I congratulated myself on my shoe choice. In the morning, I had picked up some reliable and simple-looking moccasins from Dolce & Gabbana. It is still unclear to me what one would be expected to wear, if, during working hours, one has to extinguish a fire and then show up at a high-end Center City security firm, accompanying a client, and representing Joe Madnick’s law firm.
Joe didn’t give me a security company phone number, so I couldn’t just call and cancel the appointment. I had to drive there myself. During the next thirty minutes, driving to the city, I thought of getting organized by writing phone numbers, addresses and important dates. After all, the work of a detective is all about collecting data and synthesizing it.
I parked on the corner of 5th and Arch Street, which was just a block away from the hole in the wall we had rented with Iris after my third divorce. I got out of my Jaguar. Common wisdom says to wait for four years after a divorce. Don’t wait, just do it, I say. I got divorced because something right and true waited for me and couldn’t come to me, because my dysfunctional marriage was in the way. I recalled a black guy without a name. The police called him Joe Smith, who attacked me then. If it wasn’t for him, Alexander would have walked right past me, looking through me without seeing me, and we would never be together. Call it destiny. I say, when something bad happens, look for something good around the next corner. (By the way, I never pressed charges against my attacker, and Alexander helped him to get legal aid. A year ago, he was out of prison and on his way to recovery from amnesia. I didn’t know where the guy was at that point, but if he was in prison, it wasn’t because of me.)
555 Walnut Street occupied a respectable-looking brownstone office building. Inside, the porter looked at me from head to toe, admiring, probably, my casual but smart style, took my signature and pointed to the fourth floor. He was very articulate, flipping four fingers at me and pointing all four fingers toward the elevator door. In the company’s hallway, there was a huge brass eagle on the wall. In its beak, it held a brass log with the lettering «Planet Security» on it.
«Good afternoon. How can I help you?» A melodious woman’s voice startled me, and I looked around for its source.
«Can I help you?» The same voice insisted. I crossed the hallway to look at a wooden structure bigger than some people’s houses and found a woman sitting inside.
«Hi,» I said. «I have an appointment at two o’clock for a polygraph test.»
The secretary didn’t even look at me, searching in her computer.
«Oh, Deborah Cooper. Very good, madam. You can enter this door and wait there. Where’s your lawyer?»
«He’ll be here shortly,» I said. «I didn’t know he was supposed to be here, but if he was, he would.»
Behind the door was a long, narrow corridor without windows. I crashed into one of the chairs along the wall and tried to call Joe, but his phone bounced me back. I wonder how his poor clients can reach him, if he’s unreachable even to his own detective?
The door next to me opened, and a guy with huge upper arms looked out.
«Are you Deborah Cooper?» He asked crossly. His small but wise eyes searched me up and down and then stopped on my face.
«Er…,» I said. «The deal is…»
«What’s this smell? Did you smoke here?» He wrinkled his nose just like my daughter had done, smelling something unpleasant.
«The restroom is at the end of the corridor. Don’t smoke here! When you are done, come here and knock at the door. Do you understand English? Where’s your lawyer?»
«I don’t know,» I answered honestly, and headed for the restroom. They had a tiny unisex restroom. I peed first, then looked at myself in the mirror, and screamed. No wonder my Ivy League school English wasn’t good enough for him. In the mirror, childhood’s nightmare was staring back at me: ash-covered makeup like a gray mask on my face, my red hair styled with Curls Up gel all frizzed up in a hairball and hanging above my right ear. My L’Oréal super black mascara was smeared in big dark circles. Wet paper towels took off mascara and ashes, but my hair stayed dirty gray no matter how much I wetted it. I couldn’t waste any of the paid test time anymore, so I returned to the door and knocked. The same guy let me into the room and directed me to the only chair.
«Sit here, please,» he said, and when I took a seat, he buckled me up with wires. «Don’t move,» he said sternly. «Look over there, listen to my question and answer only «yes» or «no.»
«What if…?»
«Only «yes» or «no.»
«Are you Deborah Cooper?»
«Well, Cooper is actually a married name…»
«Yes or no?»
«Yes,» I lied. After all, it was entirely this guy’s fault because he never let me explain that Debbie went to the hospital with her burned son, and Joe disappeared and wasn’t answering my calls.
«Are you thirty-eight years old?»
«No! I’m thirty.» I was actually thirty-five, but it wasn’t for him to know. Now, I wanted to pass this test for Debbie, so we could sue Gamma Woods and the company. The poor woman was suffering too much, and nobody should get away with accusing their co-workers of stealing. Joe Smith came to my mind again. He accused me of attacking him, and if it wasn’t for my material witness, Alex, I could be in prison right now.
«Sorry, could you repeat the last question?»
«Did you take Gamma Woods’ money from her handbag?»
«No!»
«Did you take jewelry from Gamma Woods’ handbag?»
What kind of jewelry was she carrying in her handbag?
«Yes or no?»
«No! Would you carry jewelry in a handbag the size of a hiking backpack?»
«I don’t know. Don’t ask me questions.» He picked up the phone, which didn’t even ring. «Hi, Joe. Yes, I have your client. She’s here. She took a test. What do you mean? She looks like… a woman. What is her hair color? She has some grayish hair. Yes, she passed. Take care.»
He slammed the receiver.
«Joe can’t believe you’re here. Said that you’re a very brave kid.»
I drove back home like mad, trying to beat the rush hour traffic. I didn’t want Alexander to see me coming home late with my after-fire look and stench. Driving, I kept calling Joe and Debbie, and couldn’t reach anybody.
The phone suddenly rang just when I tucked it safely away.
«Mommy, I want you here! It’s an emergency, emergency!» A heart-wrenching voice cried for me through static.
I got the impression my daughter needed something from me.
«Where are you, sweetie?» I asked dutifully.
«I’m at school. Everything is ruined. My life is ruined. It’s horrible, horrible. We have a cheerleading practice. Please, come here now.» My daughter shouted through sobs. «Bring clothes.»
She disconnected.
I reached for the glove compartment, got a secret stash of cigarettes, and lit one. I don’t smoke, but always have them, as I have a chocolate bar and a bottle of Excedrin pills, as my Emergency Supply. Something happened at school that ruined my daughter’s clothes. Hopefully, it wasn’t fire. For a second, a crazy thought came to my mind that Matthew had escaped the hospital and set my daughter’s school on fire to get back at me. Oh, maybe they’ve got their own arsonist. I recall hearing on Fox News that sixty percent of firefighters are pyromaniacs and arsonists. Probably, it’s as true as to say that sixty percent of police officers are control freaks; sixty percent of surgeons are sadists, and sixty percent of politicians are crooks. Even if it were a fire, why would Iris need clothes? I went through the fire this morning, and I’m fine. Besides, this morning, she had such a sweet Ralph Lauren Pink Pony outfit.
Minutes later, I ran up the stairs of Bridgewater Private School, clenching my fitness clothes, which ride with me everywhere in the trunk of my car in case I get an urge to go to the gym.
As with any old private school, the Bridgewater School had its rules for kids and for parents. «Socialize or go to hell» was the first among equal rules. Being an introvert, I wouldn’t survive at this school a day, unless I was a good actress, which I thought I was. That’s why I didn’t even flinch when my steady trot was intercepted by Ester Daum, our rumor generator. I just said, «Ester, dear. You look great!»
