Chapter 3: I Have a Place
The call came at the beginning of March. A snowstorm had hit, and she was planning out her route home sans cab and trying to decide how to persuade Murdock to leave as well.
The officer who called was named Brett Mahoney, and when she had hung up she entered Murdock's office, wondering how she was supposed to do this.
Faster's better, whispered a voice from her past. Kind, but to the point.
She knocked on the doorframe.
"Yes, Miss Dunham?"
"You haven't been answering your cell phone."
It slipped out, and she wondered that she so badly wanted not to be the one to give him this news, that she had forgotten herself for a moment.
He frowned. "Battery's dead. I think."
She took a deep breath. "I just received a call from a Detective Mahoney. I'm sorry, Mr. Murdock. It's about Miss Page. They found her body by the docks."
For a long time, he was quiet. She knew that quiet, like being in a vacuum. The world rushed by your ears like wind, loud, but hardly noticeable, because after that moment what you wanted most was not to have senses, and for a split second that somehow in your disconnected sense of space-time you made longer, you got your wish, and what had just been told to you was unreal.
But then your body took over, and you breathed again, somewhat involuntarily, and your chest began to hurt.
"How?" he whispered.
"Detective Mahoney asked that I have you call him for the details. He's at the station now. If you like, I'll take you down there."
"Thank you, Miss Dunham, but I'll take a cab. Why don't you close up for the night? Be careful. I can't see the snow, but I can hear the wind, and I know it's rough out there."
Not so much easier in here, she thought, closing the office door.
DD***DD
The funeral was a Protestant affair: simple and cold. It included an odd amalgamation of lawyers, reporters, cops, immigrants, and a delegation clearly not from anywhere in the city. Mr. Murdock had explained to her that Miss Page was originally from Vermont, and she guessed this must be the woman's family.
She had come in support of Mr. Murdock, who in spite of their shared grief was now on strict non-speaking terms with Foggy. The latter seemed to blame him in some way for Miss Page's death, and Mr. Murdock did not seem to dispute the issue.
As they stood there listening to the reverend, she felt a little overwhelmed by the curiosity of it all. Many of the people present, by the very nature of their lifestyles or occupations, would never be voluntarily social with each other. Yet here they were, all come together of their own free will. Who was this woman? What was she, that she commanded such loyalty, even in death, from such disconnected people? Or, for some of them, was it she that had caused the rift?
Foggy met them at the cemetery gates and hugged her. Murdock he regarded coldly.
"She deserved better," he said simply.
"I know," Murdock whispered.
"And if it hadn't been for you-" With a sigh, and a movement of his hands that indicated he was done with the whole affair, Foggy walked away.
She moved closer and slipped her arm through Mr. Murdock's.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
"I'm afraid I'm poor company just now, Miss Dunham."
"You're always poor company, Mr. Murdock."
He laughed, very softly, but it was a small victory, and she would take it. "I suppose that's true. Anywhere but Josie's."
"Come on. I have a place."
DD***DD
The Den of Lost Souls, or Murry's, as most people knew it, was small, clean, and warm. Murry used real kerosene lanterns when he could afford it, which was only at Christmas, and even then he really couldn't; he just told himself it was worth the extra balance on his credit card. He boasted a simple menu of standard pub fair, but his cook liked to experiment, so he had told him he could rotate a different dish through every season or so. This winter it had been a curry of some sort, but it was as comforting as everything else about the place, and she was going to be sorry to see it go.
She parked them both at the bar, helping Mr. Murdock into his seat before leaning over the counter to fetch two rocks glasses and a bottle.
"What do you drink?" she asked her boss.
"Macallan's. Neat, please."
She retrieved the second bottle, waving to Ashish, the cook, who was shaking his head at her from the kitchen.
When they were both properly served, she raised her glass. "To Miss Page," she said simply.
"To Karen," said Mr. Murdock.
They drained their glasses, and as she refilled, he asked, "What are you drinking, Miss Dunham?"
"Jameson." She smiled as she passed him his glass.
"Gloria!" a sharp yet guttural voice called, and Murry appeared behind the bar. "Stealing my whiskey again?"
"Four drinks, Murry. I'm keeping track."
"Uh huh. And who is this handsome young man? You know you're the first one she's actually brought back here. I was beginning to think she was ashamed of me."
"We're all ashamed of you, Murry!" Ashish called from the kitchen.
She waving a hand as Murdock was smiling. "This is my boss, Murry."
Murry frowned. "Well, then."
"And I didn't bring him here to meet you. We just came from a funeral."
Murry took in their attire, meeting her gaze as he finished. She nodded in Murdock's direction. "I'm sorry for your loss, young man. Drinks are on the house." He picked up the bottle, frowning over it. "Especially for someone of such excellent taste."
"What would you know about taste, Murry?" called Ashish. "You still drink potcheen!"
Murdock was laughing as Murry ran back to harass his cook. "Potcheen? You can get that stuff here?"
She swallowed her whiskey. "I'm pretty sure he makes it in his bathtub."
"How did you find this place?"
"I live upstairs."
Murdock's eyebrows raised, and she twitched. "I just realized how that sounded. Sorry, I didn't mean…I honestly don't know anywhere else."
"You come to the office, then you come here."
"Basically."
"Miss Dunham, why did you move to New York?"
She stared at her glass a long moment, then turned to meet the eyes that weren't looking at her. Murdock had left his glasses on, even in the dim pub, but she nevertheless felt he was studying her.
"I lost…someone important to me," she said. "When it was over, a friend suggested I needed a change. Turns out he was right." She swallowed the rest of her glass, then reached for the bottle.
"I'm sorry," Murdock said after a moment.
"Thank you," she replied, "but I-"
"I almost forgot," Murry said, appearing again from the back. He was fiddling with something in his shirt pocket. "That guy came in and left this for you." He slipped a folded piece of paper in front of her.
"What guy?" she took the paper tentatively, unfolded it, suddenly grateful that her companion couldn't see.
"You know, the guy. Baseball cap. Nice manners. In all the excitement over this one it slipped my mind." Murry jerked his thumb towards Murdock.
"Murry…"
"You know," he said, ignoring her tone and leaning over the counter towards the lawyer, "I don't care if you are her boss. If this letter-writer turns out to be full of steam, take her out for a real dinner. She spends too much time around me."
"I'll take you out, Gloria!" Ashish called.
"No, thank you, Ashish!" she called back. "Murry, drop it. Or I'll move out, and you'll have to find a tenant desperate enough to pay your prices for this temple of rusty nails."
"Playing hard ball. I like it." He tapped Murdock's arm. "What'd I tell ya? She's a keeper."
Murdock had been smiling throughout it all, and she found she was glad of the sight. If he was smiling, he wasn't brooding. "No doubt, Murry," he answered.
Murry shuffled to the other end of the bar, satisfied, and she finished skimming her letter.
"What kind of person writes handwritten notes these days?" Murdock asked.
"The old-fashioned kind, apparently. More?" She held up the bottle of Macallan's.
"Yes, please. And Gloria?"
"M-hm?"
"Thank you."
