Desperate Measures (10 page)

Jesus, he thought, straightening. It’s not morning. It’s Friday
afternoon
. I slept almost ten hours.

The discovery made him feel out of control, as if he’d lost something—which he had, one of his remaining days. He hurriedly
picked up the phone, read a card next to it that told him to press 9 for a long-distance call, then touched the numbers for
the
Chronicle
.

The line made a faint crackling sound. The phone at the other end rang, and fifteen seconds later, the newspaper’s receptionist
transferred the call to Burt’s office.

As usual, Burt’s crusty smoker’s voice was instantly recognizable. He didn’t need to announce as he always did, “Yeah, Forsyth
here.”

“It’s Matt. Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t get in today. Something weird happened last night. I was at—”

“I can’t talk right now. I’m in a meeting.”

Pittman heard a click as the call was interrupted.

What the…?

Pittman frowned and slowly set down the phone.

Burt’s never that abrupt, he thought. Not to me. Man, he must really be pissed. He figures I let him down by not coming in.

Pittman picked up the phone again. He couldn’t tolerate the misunderstanding. Once more the receptionist transferred the call.

“Forsyth here.”

“This is Matt. Look, I said I was sorry. I swear to you it’s not my fault. I’ve got something I need to tell you about. Last
night—”

“I don’t have time for that. I’m with some important people.”

For a second time, Burt broke the connection.

Pittman’s head throbbed. Frowning harder, he replaced the phone.

Yeah, he’s pissed all right. Important people. I get the point. For letting him down, he’s telling me as far as he’s concerned,
I’m not
important.

Pittman debated about calling a third time but reluctantly decided not to. Whatever’s bugging him, it’s obvious he isn’t going
to let me settle it over the phone.

Troubled, aching, Pittman stood and reached for his clothes. They were damp but at least no longer soaked. Because he had
hung his slacks, shirt, and suit coat on hangers, there were less wrinkles than he feared. Another plus was that the mud on
them had caked; he was able to brush off most of it. His overcoat was a mess, however: torn and grimy. He crammed it into
the wastebasket. Then he wet his rumpled sandy hair and combed it. Although he definitely needed a shave, the motel didn’t
supply a shaving kit, so that would have to wait. Hungry but in a hurry, he remembered that he’d seen a McDonald’s down the
street. No bags to pack. All he had to do was grab his key and leave.

Opening the door slightly, he peered out to see if anyone was watching his room. No one as far as he could tell. As he crossed
the parking lot toward the motel’s office, he discovered that the air was chilly despite the bright sun. His damp socks and
underwear made him uncomfortable.

Important people. During the Metro ride into the city, Pittman kept assessing what Burt had told him. The clack-clack-clack
of the train on the rails became like a mantra and helped Pittman to focus his concentration. Important people.

Maybe Burt had been telling the truth. A week from today, the
Chronicle
would close its doors. There had to be all kinds of complicated arrangements to make. It was possible that the owner and
the publisher and God knew who all were in Burt’s office discussing the direction the newspaper should take in its final days.

But wouldn’t people that important make Burt go to their office rather than want to meet in his?

Pittman reversed the direction of his thoughts and again suspected that Burt was angry at him.

In rush-hour traffic outside Grand Central Station, Pittman couldn’t find an empty cab, so he decided to use the subway. His
intention had been to go to the
Chronicle
, but his watch now showed eight minutes after five. The sun was low behind skyscrapers. The air had turned cold, and Pittman’s
damp clothes made him shiver again. Burt wouldn’t be at the office now anyway, he thought. He’d be on his way to the bar where
he always went after work.

I’m not going to sit in that bar and have my teeth chatter all the time I’m trying to explain. What I need first are dry clothes.

Pittman got out of the subway at Union Square, still couldn’t find an empty cab, and walked all the way to his apartment on
West Twelfth Street. The air was colder, the light paler as he hurried along. He unlocked the door to the vestibule of his
building. Then he unlocked the farther door that allowed him past the mailboxes into the ground-floor corridor of the building
itself.

As usual, the smell of cooking assailed him. Also as usual, the elevator wheezed and creaked, taking him to the third floor.
As usual, too, the television was blaring in the apartment next to his. He shook his head in discouragement, unlocked the
door, stepped in, shut and locked the door, and turned to discover a man sitting in his living room, reading a magazine.

Pittman’s heartbeat faltered. “What the…?”

The man set down the magazine. “Is your name Matthew Pittman?”

“What the hell do you think you’re… ?”

The man was in his late thirties. Thin, he had short brown hair, a slender face, a sharp chin. He wore a plain gray suit and
shoes with thick soles. “I’m with the police department.” He opened a wallet to show his badge and ID. He stood, his expression
sour, as if he’d much sooner be doing something else. “Detective Mullen. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“
How did you get in here?
”

“I asked the super to let me in.”

Pittman felt pressure in his chest. “You can’t just… You don’t have a right to… Damn it, have you got a warrant or something?”

“Why? Have you done something that makes you think I’d need a warrant?”

“No. I…”

“Then why don’t you save us both a lot of time. Sit down. Let’s discuss a couple of things.”

“
What
things? I still don’t…”

“You look cold. Your clothes look like they’ve been wet.”

Pittman hurriedly thought of an acceptable explanation. “Yeah, a waiter spilled water on my jacket and pants and…”

The detective nodded. “Same thing happened to me two weeks ago. Not water, though. Linguini. You’d better change. Leave the
door to your bedroom open a bit. We can talk while you get dry clothes. Also, you look like you could use a shave.”

“I’ve been trying to grow a beard,” Pittman lied. In the bedroom, listening to the detective’s voice through the slightly
open door, he nervously took off his clothes, threw them in a hamper, then grabbed fresh underwear and socks from his bureau
drawer.

He had just put on a pair of brown slacks when he saw the detective standing at the door.

“I wonder if you could tell me where you were last night.”

Feeling threatened, his nipples shrinking, Pittman reached for a shirt. “I was home for a while. Then I went for a walk.”

The detective opened the door wider, making Pittman feel even more threatened. “What time did you go for the walk?”

“Eleven.”

“And you came back… ?”

“Around one.”

The detective raised his eyebrows. “Kind of dangerous to be out walking that late.”

“I’ve never had any trouble.”

“You’ve been lucky. Anybody see you?”

Pittman almost mentioned the cook at the diner, but then he realized that if the detective talked to the cook, the cook would
mention the box Pittman had left, and the detective might find the handgun. Pittman’s permit allowed him to keep the .45 only
in his apartment. It would look suspicious that he had hidden the weapon somewhere else.

“Nobody saw me.”

“Too bad. That makes it difficult.”

“For what? Look, I don’t like your barging in here, and I don’t like being questioned when I don’t know what this is all about.”
Pittman couldn’t hide his agitation. “Who’s your superior at your precinct? What’s his telephone number?”

“Good idea. I think we ought to talk to him. Matter of fact, why don’t we both go down and talk to him in person?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“After I phone my lawyer.”

“Oh?” the detective said. “You think you need a lawyer now?”

“When the police start acting like the gestapo.”

“Aw.” The detective shook his head. “Now you’ve hurt my feelings. Put on your shoes. Get a coat. Let’s take a ride.”

“
Not until you tell me what’s going on
.” Pittman couldn’t get enough air.

“You didn’t go for a walk last night. You took a taxi up to an estate in Scarsdale and broke in.”

“I did
what
? That’s crazy.”

The detective reached into his suit coat pocket and brought out an envelope. He squinted at Pittman, opened the envelope,
and removed a sheet of paper.

“What’s this?”

“A Xerox of a check,” the detective said.

Pittman’s stomach cramped when he saw that it was a copy of the check he had written to the taxi driver the previous night.
How the hell had the police gotten it?

The detective’s expression became more sour as he explained. “An ambulance driver heading from Manhattan to the Scarsdale
estate last night says a taxi followed him all the way. He got suspicious and wrote down the ID number on the light on the
taxi’s roof. So after we were contacted about the break-in at the estate, we tracked down the cabbie. He says the guy who
hired him to drive up to that estate wrote a check to pay for the ride.
This
check. With your signature at the bottom. With your name and address printed at the top.”

Pittman stared at the copy of the check.

“Well, are you going to admit it, or are you going to make me go to the trouble of bringing you and the cabbie face-to-face
so he can identify you?”

Pittman exhaled tensely. Given what he intended to do seven days from now, what difference did it make? So I broke into a
house to save an old man’s life, he thought. Is that so big a crime? What am I trying to hide?

All the same, he hesitated. “Yes. It was me.”

“There. Now don’t you feel better?”

“But I can explain.”

“Of course.”

“After I call my lawyer.”

Pittman passed the detective at the door to the bedroom and entered the living room, heading for the telephone.

“We’re not going to have to go through that, are we?” The detective stalked after him. “This is a simple matter.”

“And I want to keep it simple. That’s why I want to call my lawyer. So there aren’t any misunderstandings.”

Pittman picked up the phone.

“I’m asking you not to do that,” the detective said. “I have just a few questions. There’s no need for an attorney. When you
were with the old man, did he say anything?”

Pittman shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Did he say anything?”

“What’s that go to do with… ? So what if… ?”

The detective stepped closer, his face stern. “Did… the… old… man… say… anything?”

“Gibberish.”

“Tell me.”

Pittman continued to hold the phone. “It didn’t make any sense. It sounded like Duncan something. Then something about snow.
Then… I don’t know… I think he said Grollier.”

The detective’s features tightened. “Did you tell anybody else?”

“Anybody else? What difference would… ? Wait a minute. This doesn’t feel right. What’s going on here? Let me see your identification.”

“I already showed you.”

“I want to see it
again
.”

The detective shrugged. “This is all the identification I need.”

The detective reached beneath his suit coat, and Pittman stiffened, his pulse speeding at the sight of the gun the detective
pulled out. The gun’s barrel was unusually long. Pittman suddenly realized that it wasn’t a barrel but a silencer attached
to the barrel.

Policemen didn’t carry silencers.

“You meddling shit, you give me any more trouble and I’ll put a goddamn bullet up your nose. Who else did you tell?”

The tip of the silencer snagged. As the man’s gaze flickered down toward his suit coat, Pittman reacted without thinking,
a reflexive response. Despite his self-destructive intentions, he had no control over his body’s need to defend itself against
sudden fear. Startled, in a frenzy, he swung the phone with all his might, cracking its plastic against the man’s forehead.

The man lurched backward. Blood streaked his brow. He cursed, struggling to focus his vision, raising the pistol.

Terrified, Pittman struck again, smashing the man’s nose. More blood flew. The man fell backward. He walloped onto a coffee
table, shattered its glass top, crashed through, and slammed against the floor, his upturned head ramming against the metal
rim of the table.

Staring at the pistol in the man’s hand, Pittman raised the phone to strike a third time, only to discover that he’d stretched
the extension cord to its limit. Trembling, he dropped the phone and searched desperately around for something else with which
to hit the man. He grabbed a lamp, about to throw it down at the man’s head, when at once he realized that the man wasn’t
moving.

The man’s eyes were open. So was his mouth. His head was propped against the far metal rim of the coffee table. His legs,
bent at the knees, hung over the near rim.

Holding the lamp high, ready to throw it, Pittman stepped closer. The man’s chest wasn’t moving.

Dear God, he’s dead.

Time seemed to have accelerated. Simultaneously Pittman felt caught between heartbeats, as if time had been suspended. For
seconds that might have been minutes, he continued to stare down at the man with the gun. Slowly he set the lamp back on its
table. He knelt beside the man, his emotions in chaos.

How did… ? I didn’t hit him hard enough to…

Christ, he must have broken his neck when he smashed through the glass. His head hid the metal side of the table.

Then Pittman noticed the blood pooling on the floor under the man—a lot of it.

Afraid that the man would spring into motion and aim the gun at him, Pittman touched the corpse’s arm and shifted the body.
He swallowed bile when he saw that a long shard of glass had been rammed into the man’s back, between his shoulder blades.