About Face (6 page)

Before leaving, I told one person where I'd be temporarily. Perry York. Even though we worked together and had never even kissed, she was the true love I had always sought. When I told her I was leaving, she asked if I could live knowing even the dream of us being together was dead. I said I couldn't. Right there, on the spot, she told me she'd run with me. Not just to protect her young son, Max, from her crooked, vindictive husband, but because, deep down, she was in love with me too.

I told her I'd be in St. Maxime, France, and that leaving together would be simply too dangerous. If she followed, once she arrived, she should call every hotel and ask to be connected to Roy Gordon's room. I told her I wouldn't be there long, three days tops.

Once the plane was in the air, and Neo and I were officially on the run, I passed out. I hadn't even realized how exhausted I was. The previous three weeks had felt like years. At wheels up it was sunny out. When I awoke hours later it was pitch black. I remember looking in Neo's carrier, which was strapped into the window seat. He was sound asleep on his side, all four legs extended straight out. His little belly expanded then retracted with each breath. At that
moment, my new reality stole my own breath. I was, justifiably or not, a fugitive.

I was terrified. I had no choice but to embark on a completely new life. None of the same people or places ever again. How was I going to make this work?

Could I make this work?

Do I spend time worrying about what I left behind? Or do I strictly focus on moving forward? I had always felt like the roughest guy in the room, the man with no fear. Nothing in my life had ever felt potentially insurmountable.

Until now.

After seven and a half hours in the air, we started to descend. More mixed emotions. I was excited by the prospect of getting off the plane, ridding myself of this confinement. But I was petrified by the possibility that I hadn't been as smart as I thought. And that I was about to be greeted by cops waiting with stun guns and handcuffs.

As soon as I saw the glimmer of lights along the coastline in the distance, like scattered diamonds on black glass, I squeezed my eyes shut. I forced myself to say good-bye to everything I had ever known. I did everything I could to fight back tears. Through the vent on top of his carrier, I saw Neo stretching. The house lights coming on and passengers preparing for arrival had awoken him.

I knew the terminal well. Once inside, I stopped in the duty-free store. Like all duty-free stores, the joint was a hoarder's wet dream—everything from alcohol to chocolates to fragrances to apparel to toys and everything in between. I hit the electronics area for hair clippers and batteries and a prepaid, disposable cell phone, then grabbed a pair of jeans and a couple of dark, solid t-shirts. The next stop was only a few meters past the store, a counter where I was able to convert a bunch of cash to euros. From there I hit the men's room, discarded the hair clippers' packaging in the garbage, and locked myself in a stall.

Another fucking bathroom stall, I thought to myself. Just a couple of weeks earlier, in a stall just like this one in my office building
in Midtown Manhattan, I first discovered one of the rarest treasures known to man—
Danish Jubilee Egg
, one of the eight missing Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs—had been planted in my briefcase. A replay of the chaos that ensued tried forcing itself into my brain. I shook my head hard to shake such thoughts away. I needed to keep moving. I was literally at the starting line of a race with an undetermined finish line.

Without a thought I sheared off my hair, watching it hit the water only to settle on the surface for a few seconds before sinking. I did it quickly, methodically. Once the first pass was done I did a second. This time there were sprinkles instead of the clumps. The third pass produced nothing. With toilet paper I scrubbed the clippers clean of my fingerprints. Then I ditched them underneath the rear of the toilet bowl, almost perfectly out of sight, and flushed the hair and paper away.

Wearing the Yankee cap I bought at Liberty International earlier in the day—to help hide my eyes as TVs throughout the airport flashed my picture—I exited L'Aéroport Nice Côte d'Azur and headed for the Hertz car rental lot across the way. The air was crisp. A hint of Mediterranean breeze welcomed me back. Behind me, and beyond the structure now at my back, I heard another plane take off. My right hand held Neo's carrier, my left hand had my briefcase. Slung over my shoulder was a small gym bag stuffed with a few crumpled suits, ties, underwear, and socks, all I had time to grab before escaping my own apartment.

I let Neo out of his case for the longest pee of his life, which he did on the tire of a black Mercedes, and a quick poop. Then within minutes Roy Gordon was traveling south on the Bord de Mer, the famous road hugging the southeastern coastline of France from Monaco to St. Tropez. I was in an Opel Astra. The compact, four-door sedan was perfect for the region's tight, windy roads. Having driven one all my life, whether in the United States or Europe, the manual transmission's stick shift was like second nature. I rolled the windows down and headed south.

Though the Côte d'Azur was my given escape route, there were
still obstacles to be considered. The towns I knew the best were actually off limits. Cannes, Antibes, Juan-les-Pins, Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat—the hot spots for me could unfortunately prove exactly that, too hot. This was summer, high time. The chances were strong that I knew people—from business associates in Manhattan to other vacationers or locals I'd met over the years—in each of them. The best bet for me was a simple one. I had to pick one of the sleepier, tier-two towns.

Local time was about midnight. The road alternated between one and two lanes. The thirty-five-mile-per-hour pace was just right, fast enough that I was moving yet slow enough I was able to breathe, think. A steady stream of warm, salty air flowed through the car, down my shirt. Each town I passed through—the ocean on my left, beachside bars and restaurants to my right—reminded me of a happier time. I had never imagined being on the Côte d'Azur in the pursuit of anything other than topless, tanning women and an endless party.

About an hour later, still a good twenty miles or so north of St. Tropez, I rolled into St. Maxime. I didn't know St. Maxime for shit. Which meant it was perfect. I had passed through it almost every time I'd been on the Côte d'Azur, but never stopped. It was almost an afterthought. Now I needed a remote nook in the world, but I couldn't fight the paranoia that comes with living in the information age. A portrait of the cop I killed in New York had already been on CNN before I left. Had I already been flashed across CNN around the globe, along with other news outposts, as well? Had the whole world already learned who I am? If yes—how many people are really paying attention? How many people could possibly spot me?

Was I really ready to find out?

Due to the late—or early, depending on your habits—hour, traffic was light. It was easy to maintain my pace and scope my surroundings. After a few minutes I slowed on the sight of the La Belle Aurore. It looked to be a small, clean, quiet hotel on the cusp of calling itself a resort. It was understated, dim. It looked to be the perfect place for me to lay up as I got my head in order.

As I pulled off the road, up away from the beach, within seconds I was faced with the easiest decision I had to make in what felt like an eternity: valet or self-parking. Valet was to the left, so like a robot I stayed right. I scoured the lot, scanned every single space to see which made the most sense. The answer was easy. One of those closest to the main road should I need to break in a hurry.

I pulled into the third spot from the entrance and turned the key, silencing the engine. There was an unexpected, eerie sensation, like I had closed the lid on the box holding my past. All I could hear was the gently crashing surf on the opposite side of the street, the interspersed passing cars, and my thoughts. Anything and everything, each breath that would pass through my lips from here on out, would be about my future. I was shocked by how distant a life I had left only half a day earlier could seem.

The lobby was beachy, comfortable. It was also empty. A thin, rust-colored rug held yellow couches that surrounded iron-framed, glass-topped coffee tables. One of the tables had a sterling silver bucket in the center filled with water—no doubt previously ice—and a spent, overturned bottle of cheap champagne floating in it. The corners of the room were adorned with assorted potted plants. The wooden walls held a few simple lithographs of scenes of the Riviera. The solid white ceiling was smooth and undisturbed aside from a couple small spotlights.

I walked up to the reception counter. I placed my briefcase and Neo's carrier at my feet. I was greeted by a forty-something female with bobbed red hair and fair skin wearing a navy pants suit with the La Belle Aurore logo on her blazer.

“
Bonjour,
” she said. “
Comment je peux aider ce soir?
”

“
Bonjour,
” I responded.

I had picked up a good amount of French from all my time spent here, but again, I'll go with the English version to make things easier.

“Unfortunately, my plans changed at the last minute and I don't have a reservation this evening. I'm hoping you have something available.”

She looked down at her computer and began typing.

“I do, in fact, have something Mr.—”

I paused. She looked up.

“Gordon,” I said, hoping she didn't see me swallow. “Roy Gordon.”

Boarding an airplane as Roy Gordon was one thing. Referring to myself as Roy Gordon was another.

Her eyes returned to her computer.

“I do have a few available rooms, Mr. Gordon. Unfortunately, they're all suites. Will this be okay?”

Little did she know I would have settled for the basement. Or a cabana.

“Sure—that will be fine.”

“Terrific,” she went on, “The rate is five hundred seventy euros per night, plus tax. And how many nights will you be staying with us?”

“I'm not sure,” I answered.

I needed to come up with something, and quick. Not having a clue about how long I was staying would seem suspicious. Or would it? This was all so new.

“My current plans tell me three nights. But it may be a bit longer, depending on how some business affairs fall into place.”

That's the fucking spirit
.

“Will that be okay?”

“It will be just fine,” she answered, fingers still typing. “I have a beautiful suite with a magnificent view of the gulf.”

After a few more seconds, her head popped up again.

“You're all set, Mr. Gordon. The last thing I need from you is a major credit card to keep on file.”

I had practiced the upcoming conversation in my head at least twenty times.

Confidence. Always.

Own every word that comes out of your mouth.

“Unfortunately, I don't have one on me,” I said as I reached into
my front pocket. “I lost my wallet somewhere in all of my last-minute-preparation-for-departure errands.”

I took a wad of euros out of my pocket. Her eyes caught it immediately. I started counting out bills.

“Anyway, American Express is sending a new card. I have been promised it will arrive no later than the day after tomorrow. So why don't we just handle it this way? You said five hundred seventy euros per night. I'm happy to give you twenty-five hundred euros, which should cover the three nights I'll definitely be staying as well as any taxes. Sound good?”

“Well, unfortunately, we require a major credit card for reasons other than just room-rate considerations. There are liability issues that—”

Improv time. Her name tag read Brigette. I smiled and cut her off. “Brigette, I absolutely understand your situation. I really do, you guys have rules. But you don't have to worry about me trashing the room. I promise you I'm probably the most boring guest you'll have in here all summer—and I don't make much noise. If it makes you feel better, I'm happy to give you my passport so you can make a copy for your records.”

The door closed behind me. We were in the living room. I let Neo out of the carrier for good and tossed his carrier, my gym bag, and my briefcase on one of the two yellow couches. The only light fell from a lamp on a white wooden desk. The desk had been positioned between the French doors leading to the terrace and the entrance to the bedroom. The suite was mellow, actually charming. The walls were the same yellow as the couches. The rug and curtains were the same orange hue I'd seen in the lobby. An antique-looking armoire I opened, white-painted wood like the desk, revealed an older, chunky TV. The coffee table matched those found in the lobby as well—iron-framed with a glass top.

Neo immediately went to work sniffing out the entire suite. I zeroed in on the television. I powered it on and went straight to
CNN's international channel, the only station I had ever really watched outside of the United States. Charles Hodson was in the middle of a financial report, first discussing the results for the day on the American stock exchanges followed by those of exchanges around the globe. I sat on the end of the bed, my eyes glued. After a couple of minutes he seemed to be nearing the end of his report. I literally inched forward, only to have him flow right into a story about banking powerhouse J. P. Morgan's impending merger with Bank One.

Dejected, antsy, I stood up and walked over to the French doors leading out to the terrace. I went out. The whispers of the Riviera, the gentle crash of the surf below, softened the sound of the reporter's voice. Fragrance from the fruits and flowers of the Maures Mountains, hovering behind, rolled downhill and filled my nose, my every pore. I stepped outside, right up to the ledge of the waist-high, top-floor terrace. I looked out over the dark, moonlit waters of the Gulf of St. Tropez. Taking a deep breath, I wondered if Perry was going to follow me.