Page 67

Mara stuffs her keys into her purse as she says, “The elevator is back in order, but…”
I save her from finding a reason not to enter another small box by saying, “It is a nice night for a walk.”
Even with the hour late, as suspected, Mara turns heads as we undertake the three-block walk to a local grocer. We dodge alley cats and a group of young men with too much time on their hands before we reach a twenty-four-hour grocer that doubles as a liquor store.
Mara seemed more at ease with the boys who wrongly believe they run the streets than the store attendant who peers at her over a folded-up newspaper. The shake of her knees as she collects a basket at the front of the store sees me floating toward the back, faking an interest in an article a journalist requested to interview me about yesterday.
Since Dr. Babkin is dead, I have a bone to pick and no one to take it out on. A highly fabricated article that makes it seem like I am only days from popping the question to Veronika would make you believe an ill-informed journalist would be the first on my hit list, but that isn’t true.
Words can’t hurt Mara. Store attendants who lower their newspapers for an uninterrupted view of her ass, though. They sure could.
I snap the attendant’s picture before forwarding it to Rafael.
While approaching the counter, the thud of my shoes stealing the cashier’s focus from Mara’s ass, Rafael replies.
Rafael:
Babkin?
My back molars smash together.
If he heard Mara’s pleas for help, why did it take him so long to assist?
I press on the brakes when I recall how Mara’s fight bellowed through the bathroom of my office. She gave it everything she had: nails, voice, and grit.
Half the Chrysler building probably heard her.
As the cashier’s throat works hard to swallow from catching my imprudent stare, I punch out a reply to Rafael.
Me:
No. But I want everything you have on them both by the a.m.
Rafael:
On it.
I pull a black Amex out of my wallet and toss it onto the counter. “Put the number on file. Anything she wants”—I nudge my head to Mara, who’s digging through prepackaged chicken breasts on the bottom shelf of a refrigerator at the back of the store—“is to be placed on this card. Do you understand?”
His throat bob mollifies my frustration enough to end Rafael’s wild goose chase before it truly begins.
Me:
This probably isn’t news to you, but if it will keep you out of my hair long enough for me to see Mara through the second wave, I’ll share it. Babkin is dead.
The cashier processes my card and hands it back to me as Rafael’s reply pops up.
Rafael:
Not soon enough, as far as I’m concerned.
Since I agree with him, I steer our conversation toward a threat much closer to home.
Me:
Paarth?
I’m not surprised by Rafael’s reply, more disappointed. I have an excess amount of rage to let go of and still no one to take it out on.