1 Runaway Man (26 page)

Now I could hear heavy pounding against the front door.

Sonya flung herself into my arms, half naked and silky. “Kiss me, Benji,” she whispered.

I kissed her feverishly, my heart hammering in my chest. It didn’t matter what she’d done. It didn’t matter who she was. At that moment, I wanted Sonya Posner more than I’d ever wanted any woman in my whole life. Truly, she had a sick hold over me.

A thud shook the building. They were taking a ram to the polished hardwood front door.

She drew back from me, breathless, those mesmerizing goddamned eyes of hers gazing at me so fondly again. “I’m sorry, Benji,” she said as her finger tightened against the Glock’s trigger.

I said, “So am I, Sonya.” Then I shot her three times in the heart through the pocket of my duffel coat.

She looked right at me, startled. Then Sonya Posner didn’t look at anything. She was dead before she slid to the floor next to our broken cocoa mugs.

I went upstairs and let Legs in.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I HAD TO BE TAKEN IN.
After I answered everything that Legs Diamond asked me, we sat in the interview room together, drank bad coffee and listened to the tape I’d made of my conversation with the late Sonya Posner.

When the tape ended with those three shots from my Chief’s Special, he turned it off and said, “Go home. Just do me a solid, okay? Don’t try bitter on for size. It’s not your style.”

I wasn’t charged with a crime. It was self-defense all of the way. The Glock 17 that Legs had found in Sonya’s dead hand was indeed the same Glock 17 that she’d used to take out Bruce Weiner and Martine Price. And he had her confession on tape.

I happen to know he played that tape at One Police Plaza for Commissioner Feldman. But there was a lot more that I didn’t know, such as what was going to happen to Jake Leetes and his Leetes Group. High-ranking prosecutors in the Manhattan’s DA’s office were debating whether my tape of Sonya would be admissible if charges were ever brought against him. And Legs told me that the NYPD’s top forensic accountants were trying to find a money trail between the Leetes Group and Sonya Posner. Me, I wasn’t counting on it. You don’t become Jake Leetes by being stupid.

The murders of Bruce and Martine could be quietly put to bed now. No need to involve the media. But that was the easy part. Commissioner Feldman still had the page-one murders of college basketball’s brightest star and a heroic police detective to account for. If he went public with an allegation that Charles Willingham and Detective Fred Ayeroff had been gunned down by the same contract killer who’d shot Bruce and Martine then it would be damned hard to draw a line connecting Bruce, Martine and Charles that didn’t also go through Kathleen Kidd, whose death the NYPD was officially calling a tragic suicide. And Commissioner Feldman was no doubt under a huge amount of pressure from the Kidd family to keep it that way.

The commissioner had his work cut out for him. It wouldn’t be easy to square the Kidd family’s demand for secrecy with an entire city’s need for justice. But you don’t become Dante Feldman by being stupid either. He’d figure out how to thread the needle. If I were a betting man I’d have laid odds that my pal Legs would be told to find himself a nice, handy fall guy. Like, say, a three-time loser with known gang ties who’d gotten himself busted for an unrelated shooting in the past twenty-four hours. Said three-time loser would be persuaded to cop to the Willingham and Ayeroff shootings in exchange for special privileges when he was sent away. A deal would be struck. A deal that would never, ever be made public. That’s just my bet.

But, like I said, I’m not a betting man.

*   *   *

THERE WERE THREE FUNERALS
that stopped traffic in New York City in the days ahead. Kathleen Kidd, daughter of Ambassador Thomas Kidd and Eleanor Saltonstall Kidd, was laid to rest. So was Charles “In Charge” Willingham, the greatest basketball player to come out of the city’s playgrounds in a generation. So was Detective Fred Ayeroff, who wasn’t famous, but when a cop dies in the line of duty everyone from the mayor on down shows to pay their respects.

Sonya Posner was laid to rest, too, I imagine, but I don’t know where. Or who took care of it. And I doubt that her funeral stopped any traffic.

Later that week, Bobby the K withdrew as a New York gubernatorial candidate due to “family reasons.” Rumors were rampant in the tabloids and on the blogosphere that his wife, Meg Grayson Kidd, had moved out and taken their two kids with her. Apparently, the super couple was no longer a couple, super or otherwise. Apparently, she had caught Bobby cheating on her. Every paparazzi sleazeball in New York, professional and amateur alike, was desperate to snap a picture of Bobby’s leggy, sultry girlfriend. As far as I knew, no such leggy, sultry girlfriend actually existed. But that didn’t stop them from chasing after Bobby morning, noon and night. Nor did it stop three different bona fide hard-core porn stars from claiming that they’d been having torrid, kinky sex with Bobby. And possessed the explicit text messages to prove it. For all I knew, they did. And would make his life miserable for weeks to come.

Just not miserable enough. Because I had a sick certainty that when it was all over, Bobby the K would get away with what he did to his thirteen-year-old sister. Nobody was going to lay a glove on him for raping Kathleen. Nobody could. And Bobby wasn’t the only one who was dirty. Nobody came out of this clean. Not his mother. Not Mr. Classy Guy. Everyone was dirty, including me. I sure felt dirty. I doubted whether I’d ever feel clean again.

*   *   *

THE MORNING AFTER I SHOT
Sonya Posner to death, I put on my dark blue suit, got Dad’s Brougham out of the garage and drove out to Willoughby for Bruce Weiner’s funeral. It was a clear, icy-cold morning. I had to stop off at Brooks Brothers on the way to buy myself a new duffel coat. It wasn’t on sale. I had to pay full retail, which pissed me off. But I didn’t have a choice. My old one had three bullet holes in it.

Bruce was buried at a small Jewish cemetery on the outskirts of town. It was a traditional graveside service—topcoats, gloves and yarmulkes required. He was laid to rest in a simple pine box. Maybe forty people were there to bid Bruce goodbye. His parents were not happy to see me among them—especially with Sara glued to my side, her gloved hand clutching mine. Bruce’s roommate, Chris Warfield, was there. So were his high school basketball teammates. And so was Charles Willingham’s grieving mother, Velma, whom I recognized from her picture in the newspaper. She stood there, tall, straight and alone with her grief. Spoke to no one. Only a couple of us knew who she was and why she was there. But she was there. Velma Willingham was my idea of one classy lady.

After the ceremony Chris came over to me with tears in his eyes and said how sorry he was about everything. The poor guy still thought I was Bruce and Sara’s cousin. I didn’t bother to set him straight. It wouldn’t have made either of us feel any better.

Sara walked me to my car and kissed me softly on the cheek before she asked me that same question again: “Benji, can I come spend the night with you?”

She wore a long gray wool coat that day over a black dress and black stockings. Her hair was pulled back. There were dark smudges under her eyes. She looked extremely pale and serious.

I said, “Look, if you ever want to talk or cry or laugh I’m here for you, day or night. But when it comes to romance I’m someone who needs to take things a bit slower, understand?”

Her big brown eyes searched mine. “Not really.”

“I don’t want to rush into things. I’ve made that mistake. I don’t want to make it again.”

“You mean you’ve had your heart broken?”

“Smashed to pieces.” I put my hands on her shoulders. “Are you going to be okay with this?”

Sara nodded. “Sure, Benji. You’re blowing me off and you’re trying to be nice about it because my brother’s dead. I get it.”

“No, you don’t get it. I want to be sure, Sara. I want to be friends.”

“I already have friends. I
love
you, Benji.”

“Maybe you do. But I want you to be sure, too. You’ll be going away to college in a few months. Meeting a lot of new guys. Chances are you’ll forget all about me.”

“I’ll
never
forget about you,” she protested. “How could I?”

“If you still feel the same a year from now we’ll know it was the real thing. And we’ll be glad we waited.”

“Because it won’t just be about boning?”

“Exactly. It’ll be about
us
.”

Sara thought this over carefully. “If I text you will you text me back?”

“Cross my heart.”

“And you
swear
you’ll never take off your bunny bracelet?”

“I
swear
.”

Reluctantly, Sara gave me one last hug. Then started back toward her parents before she stopped and said, “Benji?…”

“Yes, Sara?”

“You’re my soul mate, Benji.”

*   *   *

“CLOSE THE DOOR, BUNNY.”
Mom was staring out her office window again, looking preoccupied and troubled. “We need to have a serious talk.”

I felt myself tensing up. “Are you folding the agency?”

“Folding the agency?” She gaped at me surprise. “Hell, no. How would we earn a living?”

“We
don’t
earn a living.”

“Nobody likes a smart aleck. This is more in the line of a personal favor. Sit down, will you?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“And don’t call me boss.”

I sat down. Gus jumped into my lap and bumped my hand with his hard little head. I stroked him.

“It’s a pretty big favor,” Mom said uneasily, hands clasped before her on the desk. “Maybe the biggest I’ll ever ask of you. If you say no, I’ll understand. But I hope you won’t.”

“What is it, Mom?”

“I want you to wait until Sara Weiner has at least one year of college under her belt before you jump into the hay with her. She’s a real cutie but she’s only seventeen. And she’s an emotional basket case right now.”

“All taken care of,” I assured her. “I let her down nice and easy. No need to say another word about it. So, listen, did a cash-paying client by any chance wander in while I was at Bruce’s funeral? Because I would really like to keep busy.”

“I
haven’t
asked you for the favor yet,” she said to me sternly.

“Sorry, Mom. What is it?”

“I want you to take Rita out to dinner tonight. Somewhere nice. Use the company credit card.”

“Didn’t we max that out?”

“It’s all paid up, courtesy of the Aurora Group. I want the two of you to have a nice time. Drink a good bottle of wine. And then…”

“And then what, Mom?”

“I want you to spend the night with her.”

I blinked at her in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Perfectly.”

“Rita and me? That’s crazy!”

“No, it’s not. It makes a lot of sense, actually. I happen to know she’s terribly fond of you.”

“I’m fond of her, too. She’s like a sister to me.”

“Except she’s not your sister. She’s a healthy, beautiful, forty-two-year-old woman who is going through a hard time right now. I’ll admit she’s a few years older than you. But it turns out Sonya was, too, don’t forget.”

I lowered my eyes. “Trust me, I haven’t.”

“Rita’s my best friend, Bunny, and I’m worried about her. She has no life outside of the office. She’s lonely, depressed and she absolutely will not let go of her feelings for that bum Clarence, who is never getting out of Sing Sing. Or at least I hope he isn’t. I’m deathly afraid that she’s about to do something foolish and self-destructive—like take up with one of his old running buddies. Some thug who’ll only use her and hurt her. She needs a decent guy who cares about her. She needs
you
. And you need someone in your life right now, too. It’ll be a good fit for both of you. You’re already good friends, right?”

“But, Mom, you’re talking about
Rita
.”

She arched an eyebrow at me. “And your point is?…”

“She used to be my babysitter. She doesn’t think of me that way.”

“Yes, she does.”

I peered at her suspiciously. “She actually told you that?”

“She didn’t have to. I know her. When Sonya came sniffing around here with those cupcakes, Rita was so jealous she was ready to spit. And I noticed how upset
you
got when Rita was fussing over Bobby the K yesterday. You should have seen your little face. You looked positively savage.”

“You’re mistaken. That was gas.”

“Don’t lie to your mother. It’s a sin.”

“Mom, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Well, I do. Ask your friend Rita out to dinner. Just don’t let on that I suggested it, okay?”

“Okay, Mom. Whatever you say.”

“That’s a good boy. You can go now, Bunny.”

I returned to the outer office and slumped into my desk chair, sighing.

Lovely Rita eyed me sympathetically over her computer screen. “This was a bad one, wasn’t it?”

“It was my first time, Rita. I never did that before.”

“Banged a perp in the middle of a case?”

“Killed someone. Although, yeah, the other thing too.”

“You really cared about that ferret, didn’t you?”

“I had feelings for her. Strong feelings. And then I had to shoot her. And now it’s all kind of bound up together in one humongous wad of emotional goo. I guess it’ll take me a while to get over.”

“Trust me, little lamb. They all do.”

“Do you feel like knocking off early tonight? We could go get dinner somewhere.”

“Why not? I’ll see if Abby’s free.”

“I was thinking just the two of us.”

Rita narrowed her gaze at me. “You and me?”

“Well, yeah. Is that a problem?”

“Did Abby put you up to this?”

“Put me up to what, Rita?”

“Asking me out.”

“Why would she do something like that?”

“Because she thinks I’m a basket case.”

“Are you?”

“That, little lamb, happens to be
my
business.”

“Then again, it might be something we could talk about—over dinner.”