Midnight Whispers (Cutler 4)

"But . . ."

She hung up before I could say another word. At least I had the right Michael Sutton, I thought, and copied the address out of the phone book. Jefferson, who was sitting quietly and observing all the people and noise around him, looked up expectantly.

"All right," I said. "I've found him. Let's go find a taxicab."

"A taxicab? Okay," he replied with excitement. I followed the signs that directed us to the 41st Street entrance. When we stepped out, we saw the line of taxicabs parked along the curb. The rain had stopped, but it was still very gray and dismal. The driver at the first cab moved toward us quickly. He was a tall, thin man with a thick brown mustache.

"You need a cab, miss?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Well you got one," he said, taking our bags and putting them into the trunk. "Get in," he said, nodding toward the rear seat. Jefferson slipped in quickly and immediately looked out the window on the other side. "Where to, miss?" the driver asked after he got in.

I told him the address.

"Oh, Greenwich Village, huh?" He turned on his meter and pulled out into the thick traffic as if we were the only vehicle on the street. Horns blared, people shouted, but he turned and accelerated with indifference after the light changed. In moments we were flying down the city street, both Jefferson and me holding on to the handles for dear life.

"Your first trip to New York City?" the driver asked us.

"Yes sir."

He laughed.

"Thought so. You looked pretty terrified when you first came out of the building. Don't worry. Just keep your nose out of other people's handkerchiefs," he said, "and you'll be all right."

"Ugh," Jefferson chortled.

The driver made a few turns, took us down a long street and then made another turn around a corner where there was a restaurant and a flower shop. He drove slower and finally stopped. I gazed out the window at a row of old-looking buildings. Most had faded and worn-looking front doors with chipped stoops. The buildings themselves looked gray and dirty; the windows on the lower levels were streaked with dust and grime hardened after the rain.

"This is it," the driver said. "That'll be five forty."

I took out six dollars and handed it to him. "Thanks," he said and stepped out of the taxicab to get our suitcases.

"Which one is eight eighteen?" I asked, looking at the stoops.

"Numbers are a bit faded, but if you look closely, you'll see eight eighteen right in front of you, sweetheart." He got into his cab and drove off. Jefferson and I stood on the sidewalk and stared up at the front door of the building in which my real father lived.

"Come on, Jefferson," I said, lifting my suitcase.

"I don't

like it here," he complained. "It's ugly. And where's the playground?" he asked, looking about.

"Just come along, Jefferson," I ordered and took his hand. Reluctantly, he lifted his little suitcase and followed me up the stoop to the front door. We walked into a small entryway. On the wall were boxes for mail and above each were the names of the tenants. I found the name Michael Sutton next to Apartment 3B. Just seeing the name made me so nervous I could barely move. Slowly, I opened the second dour and we entered the first floor. I saw the stairway on the right, but I didn't see an elevator.

"I don't want to walk upstairs. I'm tired," Jefferson moaned when I started us toward the steps.

"We have to," I said. "Soon you will be able to sleep in a bed."

I tugged him along and we began to climb up the stairs. When we reached the third floor, I stopped to look around. It was a dark, dingy corridor with only a small window at the far end. It looked as though no one ever washed the glass.

"It smells funny in here," Jefferson said, grimacing. It did smell musty and stale, but I didn't say anything. Instead, I went down the corridor until we stood before 3B. Then I took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer. I heard nothing, so I pressed it again. Again, there was no sound.

"Maybe it doesn't work," I muttered and knocked gently on the door. We listened for footsteps, but heard none.

"Maybe he's not home," Jefferson suggested.

"No, I just spoke to someone here," I insisted and knocked again, this time a lot harder. Moments later, the door was thrust open and we were facing a woman who had thrown on a man's faded blue robe. Her bleached blond hair, with its thick dark roots showing, was unbrushed. She wore no makeup and had sleepy eyes. A lit cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth.