Desperate Measures (12 page)

“Believe me, Burt, you’re not the only one.”

Pittman was so disoriented that only when he was out on the shadowy street did he realize that he should have asked Burt to
lend him some money. The Metro ride from Scarsdale into Manhattan and the taxi from his apartment to the restaurant had used
all his cash. He had his checkbook, but he knew that the stores open at this hour would accept checks only for the amount
of purchase. That left…

Pittman glanced nervously behind him, saw no sign that anyone was following him, and walked quickly toward Fifth Avenue. There,
a few blocks south, he came to the main office of the bank he used. The automated teller machine was in an alcove to the left
of the entrance. He put his access card into the slot and waited for a message on the ATM’s screen to ask him for his number.

To his surprise, a different message appeared,
SEE BANK OFFICER
.

The machine made a whirring sound.

It swallowed his card.

Pittman gaped. What the…? There’s got to be some mistake. Why would… ?

The obvious dismaying answer occurred to him. The police must have gotten a court order.
They froze my account
.

Burt was right.

“Haven’t you listened to the radio? You didn’t see the evening news?” Burt had demanded. Pittman walked rapidly along a side
street, checking several taverns, finding one that had a television behind the bar. Since the
Chronicle
and all the other New York City newspapers came out in the morning, they wouldn’t have had enough time to run a story about
anything that happened to Jonathan Millgate late last night.

The only ready source of news that Pittman could think of was a cable channel like CNN. He sat in a shadowy, smoke-filled
corner of the tavern and in frustration watched the fourth round of a boxing match. He fidgeted, not sharing the enthusiasm
of the other patrons in the bar about a sudden knockout.

Come on, he kept thinking. Somebody put on the news.

He almost risked drawing attention to himself by asking the man behind the bar to switch channels to CNN. But just as Pittman
stood to approach the counter, news came on after the fight, and Pittman was stunned to see his photograph on a screen behind
the reporter. The photo had been taken years earlier when Pittman had had a mustache. His features had been heavier, not yet
ravaged by grief. Nonetheless, he immediately receded back into the shadows.

“Suicidal obituary writer kills ailing diplomat,” the reporter intoned, obviously enjoying the lurid headline.

Feeling his extremities turn cold as blood rushed to his stomach, Pittman listened in dismay. The reporter qualified his story
by frequently using the words
alleged
and
possibly
, but his tone left no doubt that Pittman was guilty. According to the Scarsdale police, in cooperation with the Manhattan
homicide department, Pittman—suffering from a nervous breakdown as a consequence of his son’s death—had determined to commit
suicide and had gone so far as to write his own obituary. Newswriters who had desks near Pittman characterized him as being
depressed and distracted. He was said to be obsessed with Jonathan Millgate, an obsession that had begun seven years earlier
when Pittman had become irrationally convinced that Millgate was involved in a defense-industry scandal. Pittman had stalked
Millgate so relentlessly for an interview that Millgate had considered asking the police for a restraining order. Now, in
his weakened mental state, Pittman had again become fixated on Millgate, apparently enough to kill him as a prelude to Pittman’s
suicide. Warned of the danger, Millgate’s aides had taken the precaution of moving the senior statesman from a New York hospital
where he was recovering from a heart attack. Pittman had managed to follow Millgate to an estate in Scarsdale, had broken
into Millgate’s room, and had disconnected his life-support system, killing him. Fingerprints on the outside door to Millgate’s
room as well as on Millgate’s medical equipment proved that Pittman had been inside. A nurse had seen him flee from the old
man’s bedside. A check that Pittman had given to a New York City taxi driver who drove him to the estate had made it possible
for the police to narrow their investigation to Pittman as their main suspect. Pittman was still at large.

Pittman stared at the television and strained to keep from shaking. His sanity felt threatened. Despite the differences, surely
everyone in the tavern must know it was
his
photograph they’d just been shown. He had to get onto the street before someone called the police.

The police. Pittman walked in alarmed confusion from the bar, keeping his head low, relieved that no one tried to stop him.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I ought to
go
to the police. Tell them they’re mistaken. I tried to
help
Millgate, not kill him.

Sure. And what about the man you killed in your apartment? If he’s still there, if his buddies haven’t moved him. Do you expect
the police will take your word about what happened? As soon as they get their hands on you, they’ll put you in jail.

Is that so bad? At least I’ll be safe. The men at my apartment won’t be able to get at me.

What makes you sure? Seven years ago, two men broke your jaw while you and they were in custody in Boston. Security might
fail again. And this time what happens to you could be lethal.

When Pittman entered the diner, he watched to see if anyone looked suspiciously toward him. No one seemed to care. Either
they hadn’t seen the story about him on TV or else they didn’t make the connection with him. After all, no one here knew him
by name, except for the cook who was usually on duty at this hour, and the cook knew Pittman only as Matt.

“How you doing, Matt?” the cook asked. “No show for several weeks, and now you’re back two nights in a row. We’ll get some
weight back on you quick. What’ll it be tonight?”

Still dismayed that the police had arranged for his bank’s automated teller machine to seize his card, Pittman said, “I’m
low on cash. Will you take a check for a meal?”

“You’ve always been good for it.”

“And an extra twenty dollars?”

“Hey, you don’t appreciate my cooking that much. Sorry.”

“Ten dollars?”

The cook shook his head.

“Come on.”

“You’re really that low?”

“
Worse
than low.”

“You’re breaking my heart.” The cook debated. “Okay. For you, I’ll make an exception. But don’t let this get around.”

“Our secret. I appreciate this, Tony. I’m starved. Give me a salad, the meat loaf, mashed potatoes, plenty of gravy, those
peas and carrots, a glass of milk, and coffee, coffee, coffee. Then we’ll talk about dessert.”

“Yeah, we
will
get some weight back on you. You sure that’s all?”

“One thing more.”

“What is it?”

“The box I gave you last night.”

Outside the diner, Pittman sought the cover of a nearby alley. Crouching in the darkness with his back to the street, he opened
the box, took out the .45 and the carton of ammunition, and placed them in his gym bag.

He heard a threatening voice behind him. “What ya got in the bag, man?”

Looking over his shoulder, Pittman saw a street kid, tall, broad shoulders, steely eyes, late teens.

“Stuff.”

“
What
stuff?” The kid flashed a long-bladed knife.

“
This
stuff.” Pittman aimed the .45.

The kid put the knife away. “Cool, man. Damned good stuff.” He backed off, hurrying down the street.

Pittman put the gun back in the gym bag.

Madison Square Park was the site of Pittman’s favorite Steichen photograph, an evocative early-twentieth-century depiction
of the Flatiron Building, where Broadway intersects with Fifth Avenue. The photograph showed a winter scene with snow falling
on horse carriages, and to the left, taking up only part of the photograph but seeming to dominate the photo as much as the
Flatiron Building did, were the bare trees of Madison Square Park.

Pittman positioned himself on Fifth Avenue about where he assumed that Steichen had stood with his tripoded camera. Although
it was spring and not winter, the trees were still not fully leafed, and Pittman used the night to imagine that he’d been
taken back in time, that the muffled clop of horses’ hooves had replaced the busy roar of traffic.

He had gotten to the park a half hour early. There’d been no other place to go. Besides, although the meal at the diner had
given him back some energy, he was still tired from the exertion of the previous night and the considerable walking he’d done
all day. Despite his fears, his body felt more fit than it had in over a year. His muscle aches were almost a pleasure. Even
so, he had pushed his body to its limit. He needed to sit.

But not in plain view. After briefly pretending that he was Steichen, he left where he thought that the great photographer
had placed his camera and retreated toward the trees, walkways, and benches of the park. At night, he became only one of the
park’s many indistinct visitors, most of them homeless, lounging on the benches.

He thought, and he waited.

On schedule at eleven o’clock, Burt Forsyth got out of a taxi on Fifth Avenue. As the taxi drove away, merging with the headlights
of traffic, Burt paused just long enough to light a cigarette, the glow from his lighter possibly intended as a beacon, something
to attract Pittman’s attention and help Pittman recognize him.

Then Burt walked into the park, passing the war memorial flagpole. Obviously, Pittman thought, I’m supposed to go over to
him. He doesn’t know where I am.

After staring behind Burt to see if anyone was following, Pittman stood from his shadow-obscured bench.

But as he approached, Burt’s expression intensified. He shook his head slightly, firmly in what seemed a warning. He gestured
unobtrusively ahead and continued past Pittman.

Pittman did his best not to call out to Burt. I’m supposed to follow, is that it? In case we’ve got company? To be extracautious?

As casually as he could make it seem, Pittman took a path that ran parallel to the one Burt had chosen. Burt crossed the park,
went up to Twenty-sixth Street, and proceeded to the right along it. Following, Pittman walked by a white marble court building,
turned east onto Twenty-sixth Street, ignored the darkened expensive shops on his right, and concentrated on Burt ahead of
him.

Halfway along the block, Burt abruptly stepped out of sight beneath a makeshift roof that protected the sidewalk in a construction
area. When Pittman hurried to catch up to him, he saw that Burt was waiting in the shadows behind two Dumpsters and a jungle
of metal scaffolds.

Pittman veered toward him.

“I don’t know what to do, Burt. The television news makes me look like a maniac.”

“I told you it was bad.
What happened?
How did you get into this mess?”

“I didn’t kill Millgate.”

“Then why were you seen running from his room?”

“There’s an innocent explanation.”

“Innocent? Your fingerprints are on his life-support system. What were you doing in—?”

“Burt, you have to believe me. This is all a big mistake. Whatever caused Millgate’s death, I had nothing to do with it.”

“Hey,
I
believe you. But I’m not the one you have to convince. How will you explain to the police about—?”

A sudden shadow made Burt turn from the scaffolding toward the sidewalk. Hearing a noise, Pittman glanced in that direction
as well, seeing a man loom into view. The man was silhouetted by a streetlight, so Pittman couldn’t see his face, but he could
see the oversized windbreaker the man wore.

The man made a gesture, pulling something out.

No! Pittman stumbled back. Trapped, he bumped against garbage cans.

Cornered, seeing the pistol the man was aiming, Pittman had no other defense except to raise his gym bag, preparing to throw
it.

When the man fired, the pistol’s silencer reduced the sound of the shot so that it wasn’t any louder than a fist against a
pillow.

The bullet hit the gym bag, bursting through, missing Pittman as he lost his balance, falling among garbage cans, striking
concrete.

The gunman came into the shadows. Pittman stared up at him in panic, expecting the next bullet to be between his eyes. But
a metallic clatter startled the gunman and made him swing toward Burt, who had stumbled against a section of scaffolding.
The gunman shot him in the chest.

Gasping, Burt lurched back.

By then, Pittman was frantically yanking at the zipper on his gym bag.

As the gunman returned his attention to Pittman, Burt collided against the bars of the scaffolding and rebounded off them,
pawing at the air, involuntarily grabbing the first thing in front of him: the gunman. Finding Burt’s arms around his shoulders,
the gunman pulled them away, spun, and shot him again, this time in the face.

Pittman had the gym bag open.

The gunman pivoted toward him and raised the pistol.

Pittman gripped the .45, cocked it, and pulled the trigger. The unsilenced .45 made a roar that seemed all the worse because
it contrasted with the three previous muffled shots. The roar felt like hands slamming against Pittman’s ears. It echoed,
amplified by the narrow confines. Pittman’s ears rang as he fired and fired again.

Then he stopped.

Because he didn’t have a target. The man was no longer there.

The confinement had helped Pittman’s aim. The gunman was on his back, blood spewing from his chest, throat, and left eye.

Pittman retched, tasting bile. But he couldn’t allow himself to give in. Burt. He had to help Burt. He scrambled toward him,
felt for a pulse, but he couldn’t find one. No! Burt!

Despite the torturous ringing in his ears, he suddenly heard shouting, a siren in the distance. He felt paralyzed with shock.
His eyes stung as he took one last look at his friend. Then, with the siren wailing nearer, his paralysis broke. He rushed
to grab the gym bag, shoved the .45 into it, and charged away from the scaffolds.