Free Come Out Tonight by Bonnie Rozanski Page B

detective part of me revived itself – Answer it! It could be an emergency! - but then it was gone again, submerged somewhere in my reptilian brain.   The phone went to voice message and who the hell cared.
     
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    Later, when Julian was in the shower, and I was berating myself - “Again! Donna, you fool, you did it again!” – I walked naked over to the blinking light of the answering machine.   
    There was, of course, that one message:   “Uh, hello.   This is Ryan the upstairs neighbor at 119 West 96 th Street .   I got a message that Detective Sirken would like to talk to me about what happened to Jessica Finklemeyer.   I’m at home now, so if you get back anytime this evening, you can call me at 212-724-5066. Uh, thanks.”
    I padded back into the bedroom to grab a bathrobe, then back again into the living room.   I dialed the number, and waited while it rang three times.   I was about to get off when someone picked up.   “Ryan speaking,” he said.
    “This is Detective Sirken of the NYPD.   I was hoping to have a chat with you about Jessica Finklemeyer.   But perhaps it’s too late tonight.”
    “Tonight?” Ryan said.   
    Down the hall the shower turned off. The hair dryer turned on.   I had no idea how I would face Julian when he got out.   Boy, did I ever want to get out of the house. “Well, tonight if it’s not too much trouble.”
    A pause, then, “Well, all right.   I’m sort of a night owl anyway.   Where do you want to meet?   Or do we do this on the phone?”
    We could have done it on the phone, but I was all for getting out, the faster the better. Preferably before Julian got out of the bathroom.    “I could come over right now, actually.   To your place. If it’s all right with you.”
    “I guess the policeman’s work is never done, isn’t it?” he chuckled.   “Well, my address is 119 W. 96 th – though I guess you know it already.”
    “I do.   Between Amsterdam and Columbus .   I’ll be there within the hour.”
    “Okay.   Just ring my button.   I’ll buzz you up.”
    I jumped back into my clothes, called to Julian through the bathroom door that I was going out, took the elevator down and grabbed the first cab going past.   On our way through the park, I sat back in the seat and berated myself some more in my head.   It was bad enough that I had allowed Julian to stay in my apartment. Bad when I’d said just a few days; worse when I willingly amended it to a month, and, finally, THIS.   It wouldn’t work.   It never had worked.   The guy was a hunk, but an amoral hunk, a hunk who couldn’t be trusted, a hunk who never seemed to have a dollar in his pocket, but who managed to have Louis Vuitton bags and a gym membership.   Why was I pathologically attracted to these hunky bad boys?   Was it a cops and robbers thing? Did I crave risk all the time, even in my private life?    Why couldn’t I go for someone dull and stable, someone a little overweight with an accounting degree or some guy four inches shorter than me with thick glasses and a hefty paycheck?   How about a nice Clark Kent type without the Superman alter ego?
    The cabby stopped in front of 119.   I asked for a receipt and got some strip of paper which was half ripped from where it emerged from the meter.   I figured I’d submit it sometime next week, along with the half a dozen others I’d accumulated over the last month.   I stepped out into the night air.
    The brownstone was all lit up on the bottom and at the top, with the second floor dark, like some giant all-beef patty sandwiched between two bright halves of a sesame seed bun.   I climbed the stoop and opened the front door.   The foyer was lit by a single bulb, not much – I remembered Arlene saying that that the landlord paid the utilities - but light enough to see the directory.   Arlene Fisher: 1A; Jessica Finklemeyer: 2A, and Ryan O’Donnell: 3A.   O’Donnell: that sounded vaguely