City Of Lies (11 page)

‘I’ll handle it, Ben. I’ll find out who he is.’

‘Okay. We’re done then. Go see Victor Klein, make sure he’s organizing the people we need. And speak to Henry Kossoff . . . tell him we need hardware and cars. You know the routine.’

They left the upper floor together, made their way down a narrow iron fire escape to the car lot at the rear of the building.

‘Call me later,’ Ben Marcus said. He glanced at his watch. ‘Call me before one and let me know what’s happening.’

Later, much later, seated on a bench along the third floor corridor, Harper questioned what he’d heard.

Leave
?

The doctor was by the door. He merely saw the old man’s lips move. He did not hear anything.

‘You must have,’ Harper insisted, but he knew he was merely wishing for the doctor to agree with him so he could try and make some sense of it, so he could attempt to find its relevance and meaning.

‘I’m sorry,’ the doctor said. ‘I really am sorry, Mr Harper, I was too far away.’

The single word was uttered, if it had
been
a word at all, and then Edward Bernstein – absentee father, gunshot victim, dying man – had slipped into unconsciousness once more.

John Harper had knelt by the side of the bed, his hand closed over his father’s, and he’d tried to feel something personal for the man.

Finally – ten, perhaps fifteen minutes – and the doctor called for an orderly to help him take Harper out. Bernstein’s vitals were growing even weaker and he needed attention. The doctor told Harper to come back the following day. Harper did not protest or argue. He tried to leave. He made it as far as the bench situated ten yards down the hallway, and there he sat until Frank Duchaunak found him.

‘Mr Harper?’

Harper looked up.

‘I thought it was you,’ Duchaunak said. ‘I asked for your name downstairs. I am a police officer. My name is Frank Duchaunak, Detective Frank Duchaunak.’ He waited for Harper to speak, and when he said nothing Duchaunak nodded at the seat beside him. ‘May I?’

Harper shrugged.

Duchaunak sat down. He leaned back and sighed. ‘I understand Edward Bernstein regained consciousness.’

Harper neither spoke nor made any indication of having heard the question.

‘Mr Harper?’

Harper looked down at the grey-green tiles beneath his feet. The hexagonal tessellation ran both ways, as far as he could see. Tiny scuffs of black were scattered along them, marking the hurrying feet of attendant nurses and doctors; the fingerprints of an emergency, of a life surfacing, a life slipping away.

‘I don’t want to intrude at a time like this, Mr Harper, but I came as soon as I heard.’

Harper frowned. ‘Heard what?’

‘That Mr Bernstein had regained consciousness.’

‘Who told you?’

‘The duty nurse called me.’

‘Why would she do that?’ Harper asked.

‘Because I am the investigating officer, Mr Harper. I am in charge of the investigation into Mr Bernstein’s – into your father’s – shooting.’

‘Right,’ Harper said. ‘Of course.’

‘Did you see him?’

‘Yes, I saw him.’

‘And did he speak?’

Harper shook his head. He turned and looked at Duchaunak. He realized it was same cop, the one from the previous day, the one Uncle Walt had called an asshole. He was older than Harper, perhaps by half a dozen years or so, but he carried the world-weary beaten look of someone who’d crammed the contents of two lives into half as many years.

‘Are you an asshole?’ Harper asked.

Duchaunak frowned, then started laughing. ‘Am I an asshole?’ he asked. ‘Sure I’m an asshole, a real professional asshole. I’m one of those assholes who isn’t only born an asshole, I get up early in the morning to practise.’

Harper smiled.

‘Who said that?’ Duchaunak asked. ‘Walt?’

‘Walt? You know Walt Freiberg?’

‘A little,’ Duchaunak said.

‘He didn’t want you here yesterday . . . and then when you went he called you an asshole cop.’

‘An asshole cop. . . that’s what he said? I’m not sure what one of those is, but hell, if that’s what Walt thinks then fair enough. Man has a right to an opinion.’

Harper didn’t reply. He wanted the man to go away.

‘So this is a real surprise for me, the fact that Edward Bernstein has a son.’ Duchaunak just looked at Harper for a few moments.

Harper wanted to tell Duchaunak that it had been a greater surprise for himself, but felt that such a comment would serve no purpose.

‘Did he speak?’ Duchaunak asked.

‘I think so.’

‘He said something?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Harper replied.

‘Did it seem like he said something?’

‘I think he told me to leave.’ Harper closed his eyes, ran his right hand through his hair. His hand stopped at the back of his neck and he appeared to massage the tense knot of muscles at the top of his spine. He wanted a drink, perhaps three, but he still felt no motivation to move.

‘To leave?’ Duchaunak asked.

‘I don’t know, Detective. I don’t know that he even spoke, to tell you the truth. It sounded like one word . . . one word from a dying man I’ve never met before, and I think I wanted it to be a real word, a word that had some meaning, a word that perhaps had some relevance to the fact that he’s about to die and I’m his son—’ Harper stopped and looked directly at Duchaunak. ‘For Christ’s sake, I don’t even know that I
am
his son. I’m going on the word of my crazy aunt and a guy called Walt Freiberg who I haven’t seen for the better part of thirty years.’

‘If he told you to leave . . . well, if he told you to leave, then I figure he gave you the best advice he could.’

Harper smiled and shook his head. ‘I only just arrived Detective.’

Duchaunak nodded. ‘Sure you did, sure you did. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s possibly the best advice you were ever given, regardless of who it came from.’

There was silence between them for a moment.

‘You look like him,’ Duchaunak said eventually.

‘So?’ Harper replied. ‘A lot of people look like a whole lot of other people, doesn’t mean they’re related.’

‘It wasn’t an accusation, Mr Harper.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Harper said. ‘This has been a difficult couple of days, still is difficult. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.’

‘Who told you about this?’

‘You mean who told me that he was here in the hospital?’

‘Yes, who told you?’

‘My aunt. My mother’s sister. She raised me after my mother died.’

‘She lives here in New York?’

‘Yes, over on Carmine Street off of Seventh.’

‘And you live where?’ Duchaunak asked.

Harper shook his head. ‘Miami. I’m a reporter for the
Herald
.’

‘Long time away from New York?’

‘Left here when I was nineteen. Went to Florida to get away from all of this.’

‘All of what?’

‘New York, everything it represented for me.’

‘The death of your mother, right?’

‘That, and my uncle’s suicide.’

‘Suicide?’

‘Yes,’ Harper said. ‘My aunt’s husband, name was Garrett Sawyer. He killed himself when I was twelve.’

‘Difficult childhood.’

Harper smiled. ‘Difficult life, Detective.’

‘You married?’

‘No. No wife, no kids, crappy job . . . and now this.’

‘And your relationship with Walter Freiberg?’

‘Relationship?’ Harper asked. ‘What relationship would that be?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Walt . . . Uncle Walt. He used to be around a little after Garrett died. He was a friend of the family so to speak.’

‘Involved with your aunt?’

Harper turned and looked at Duchaunak; he frowned, felt irritated. ‘Why the third degree? I didn’t have anything to do with the shooting.’

‘I know you didn’t, Mr Harper. I have a curious nature. Did you know Walt Freiberg and Edward Bernstein were business partners . . . have been for many years?’

‘I don’t know anything, Detective. I got a call from my aunt. She told me to come back to New York. When I got here she told me that a father I thought was dead was actually alive . . . well, nearly alive. She told me he’d been shot. I came here to see him yesterday and Walt Freiberg was here at the same time. I haven’t seen Walt for about twenty-five years. He was here when I arrived at the hospital, and then we left and had something to eat. I stayed in a hotel last night, and then when I got up I came back here. Now you show up and ask me all manner of questions like I know a great deal more about what’s going on than you do. I’m tired, stressed, confused, overwhelmed, the last thing I can deal with right now is the third degree from you.’

Duchaunak was silent for a time. He looked the other way
down the corridor. When he turned back he looked exhausted, as overwhelmed as Harper felt. ‘I don’t mean to bust your balls, Mr Harper. I got a headache the size of Michigan and then some. I haven’t slept all night. I don’t know who you are, except that you might be Lenny . . . Edward Bernstein’s son. I don’t know much of anything at all to tell you the truth, probably as little as you. I just have to find out who shot your father, and anything that might lead me in the right direction is something I have to follow. That’s all.’ Duchaunak rose from the bench. He looked down at Harper. ‘I’m sorry for harassing you at a time like this, but you have to understand that this is my job—’

Harper raised his hand. He didn’t think he could tolerate any more words from anyone. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘No harm done. I’m going to stay here a while if it’s okay with you. I just need some time to figure all of this out.’

‘Sure thing,’ Duchaunak said. He held out his hand. Harper reached up and took it. ‘Take care, Mr Harper. Maybe we’ll speak again sometime.’

‘Maybe we will, Detective.’

Duchaunak started to walk away. He slowed, turned, and Harper looked up.

‘Still think you should go back home,’ Duchaunak said.

‘I know, you told me once already. You and Evelyn both.’

Duchaunak nodded, looked like he was going to say something else, but he merely shook his head.

Harper listened to the sound of Duchaunak’s shoes echoing down the corridor, could still hear him walking even when he turned left at the end.

Harper leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. He felt as if the world and all its troubles had settled on his shoulders.

Across the street, half a block down, Duchaunak and Faulkner seated in the car.

‘Didn’t see anything.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Nope, not a thing. Kid seemed wired up tight. Don’t think he has a clue who these people are.’

Faulkner put the lid on his styrofoam cup and slotted it in the cup-rest beside his seat. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine kicked into life.

‘Hang fire,’ Duchaunak said.

Faulkner killed the engine.

‘That’s her,’ Duchaunak said.

‘Where?’

‘Over there in the black Merc.’

Faulkner leaned forward and peered through the windscreen. ‘You sure?’

‘Sure as can be.’

‘She waiting for Harper?’

‘Fuck knows. Maybe she’s waiting for Freiberg.’

‘You’re sure it was the aunt who called Harper, not Walt?’

‘’S what the kid said. Said his aunt called him, told him to come back to New York, and it was only when he got here that she told him about Lenny. Said that Freiberg was here when he came to the hospital yesterday, and when they were done visiting they went for something to eat and then he stayed overnight in a hotel.’

‘Wonder why he didn’t stay with his aunt.’

‘Christ only knows—’ Duchaunak started, and then ‘Lookee here . . . look who’s come to town.’

A second car, a midnight-blue sedan, pulled up behind the Merc. It drew to a stop, the driver’s door opened and Walt Freiberg stepped out.

Within a moment Cathy Hollander emerged from the Merc.

‘Told you it was her,’ Duchaunak said.

‘I’ll get you a Kewpie doll.’

Duchaunak and Faulkner watched as Walt Freiberg and Cathy Hollander exchanged a few words on the sidewalk, and then the pair of them crossed the street and started up the steps of St Vincent’s.

‘I want to know what the deal is with this, John Harper,’ Duchaunak said quietly. ‘Either he’s in this and he’s a really fucking good actor, or he’s walking around the edges of something he knows nothing about.’

‘And if it has anything to do with Marcus then there’s a good chance he won’t get back to Miami.’

Duchaunak nodded slowly, said nothing.

Faulkner started the engine a second time. ‘Precinct?’ he asked.

Duchaunak nodded. ‘Precinct.’

‘Cathy called me,’ Freiberg said, when he was five or six feet from where Harper sat on the bench. ‘She called me and told me that Frank Duchaunak was here.’

‘Walt,’ Harper said. He stood up and shook Freiberg’s hand. ‘Hi there. How are you?’

Freiberg placed his hand on Harper’s shoulder and sat him down. Freiberg sat on one side, Cathy Hollander on the other. ‘I’m fine John, just fine. Did he speak with you?’

‘Who?’

‘Duchaunak . . . the cop.’

Harper nodded. He was quiet for a moment. ‘He said something to me Uncle Walt.’

Freiberg nodded. ‘I know, John, you just told me.’

‘No, Edward, my father . . . he said something to me.’

Freiberg started to rise. ‘He’s awake? He’s conscious? Jesus, John, why didn’t you say so? Christ almighty, what the hell are we doing sat here?’

‘He’s not conscious any more, Uncle Walt. He came round for just a second or two, and I don’t know that he actually did say something, but it sounded like he was telling me to leave.’

‘To leave?’

‘That’s what it sounded like. Sounded like he said the word “leave”. That was all. I could have been mistaken, but—’ Harper exhaled deeply and shook his head. He looked at Cathy Hollander. She smiled sympathetically. ‘Hello, Miss Hollander.’

‘Hello, Mr Harper.’

‘You okay?’

‘As can be.’

‘Thanks for waiting for me.’

‘No problem, no problem at all.’

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Freiberg said.

‘Walt?’

‘Yes, John?’

‘Who is Lenny?’