Forgive Me (13 page)

They were standing on Ross's meager back porch, so meager in fact that Konquist had to remain on the threshold. They were standing out there, under a limp roof, at Ross's insistence. Two minutes into their mild Q & A and the man needed some air. Well, his best friend had died, so there was that. And some people just got squirrelly in the presence of cops.

Nevertheless.

“Mr. Berman, you're telling us that your friend Phillip, a man worth more money than, frankly, I can count, flew across the country and his special dinner with his oldest friend was at…the Marietta Diner?”

Ross nodded, avoided eye contact. “Yes, sir.”

“Doesn't that seem a little odd, Mr. Berman?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Why not what, sir?”

“They have great bread pudding,” Konquist interjected. “I've been a few times with the wife.”

Ross nodded, avoided eye contact.

The sluicing autumn rain cocooned them all. Parts of the city were under a flood warning. This was going to be a long night for a whole lot of people. Konquist and Chau saw no reason why this squirrelly man wanted to add to their stress with a dumb act, but he was. Then again, nothing else had come easy with this case. Why should this?

“OK,” said Detective Chau, “let's shift gears. What did you and Phillip talk about at the Marietta Diner?”

“What did we talk about?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know. Stuff.”

“Did he seem on edge?”

“On edge?”

Chau squeezed the bridge of his nose. Ohfortheloveofgod. “Did he say anything that struck you as out of the ordinary? And so help me, if you simply repeat what I just said, I will throw you off this porch.”

“Victor,” said Konquist. “Why don't you take a break?”

Chau took a break.

Konquist stepped out onto the narrow porch.

“You know what's weird,” he said. “The rain. It always smells different in October. Don't you think? It smells…sad. Compare that to the rain in August. Oh the storms we get! You know. You're Atlanta born and bred. That rain smells like excitement. Ever been at Turner Field during a rainstorm?”

“I don't really follow sports.”

“Hey, we all have our interests. I like model airplanes. I like to put them together and paint them. It takes a long time. I heard once that it takes a real enthusiast longer to paint a model P-51 Mustang in one-sixteenth scale than it did for a team to paint the real thing back in the forties. Why do you think that is?”

“It's a lot harder sometimes to do a small thing,” replied Ross, “than a big thing.”

“That's it! That's the reason. Makes sense now that you say it. Funny how you can know something but not be aware of it until you hear someone else say the words. It's what they call…what is it…the ‘subconscious.' ”

“The ‘unconscious.' ”

“Are you sure?”

“ ‘Subconscious' is Freud being sloppy. ‘Unconscious' is the preferred clinical term.”

“Huh. Learn something new every day. Otherwise what's the point of living, right?”

Ross shrugged.

“Sorry. That was probably too close to home. I like your home, by the way, Mr. Berman. It's cozy. You like living alone?”

“I like being independent.”

“Who doesn't, am I right? Yeah, you strike me as the kind of guy who's particular about his relationships. You must have held Phillip in high regard.”

“He was my best friend. He was…I think he was my only friend.”

In the other room, Chau took a phone call, briefly distracting Detective Konquist, although he swiftly resumed the path of the conversation.

“From when you were kids, you said?”

“Yeah.”

“That's a long time to know someone. I'll bet you would have done anything for him. Like this luncheon, for example. Was that his idea or yours? It was yours, wasn't it? Your way of paying him back. And an excuse to drag him to Atlanta, right?”

“Exactly,” said Ross. “We talked every week on the phone but I hadn't seen him in years. He mentioned this convention offhandedly and he wasn't even going to attend.”

“So this was before your charity ended up sponsoring it?”

“Oh God, yes. I don't even remember who was sponsoring it at the beginning. Probably some housing conglomerate at the complete opposite end of the spectrum from us. We build low-cost residences for the homeless. But Phillip mentioned the convention and it lit a spark in my imagination and I found out their primary sponsor had dropped out and there was no way these people were going to come to us, so I went to them, with Phillip providing the introduction, and suddenly the fat cats were in bed with the stray dogs. It was a beautiful thing.”

“Sounds like everything worked out.”

“Until it didn't,” Ross said glumly. “I was the one, by the way, who made the announcement. I took to the podium. I told them what had happened. I'd only found out a few hours before. I'd arrived at the hotel to have breakfast with Phillip and I took the elevator up to his room and…”

“And you still attended the luncheon.”

“Yes. I even read his speech. It was in the…” Ross stumbled over the next word, finally stammering it into: “…thing.”

“Right. The thing. And then what did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you stay at the hotel? Did you go home?”

“I went home.” Ross gripped the railing. The iron was cool to the touch, and slick. “What else was there to do?”

“I understand.”

“He was my best friend.”

Konquist lifted a hand to comfort Ross, but at the last minute retracted it, although he wasn't sure why. At that moment, Chau rejoined them, but now he was the one restricted to the doorway. From the look in Chau's eyes, the phone call had been bad, bad news.

“Well, Mr. Berman, I think we've gotten what we came for,” Konquist said. “We want to thank you for your time. You've been useful, filling in the blanks and all that.”

“I wish I could help you more. But, like I said, I'd never seen this other guy, the one who killed Phillip, before in my life.”

“I guess it's just one of those things.”

Ross walked the detectives to the front door. And they were halfway out the door when Konquist suddenly wheeled around, looking mildly confused.

“Detective?” asked Ross.

“It's just…it's the strangest thing, and I'd totally forgotten about it. In the day planner, Phillip's secretary had you listed, but not under your name.”

Ross frowned. “Under what name was I listed? I don't have any aliases, Detectives.”

“That's the thing. It wasn't a name exactly. It was an initial. But his secretary said the initial was code for you and so we came here. I asked if Mr. Wilkerson normally wrote in code and he said no. The strangest thing.”

“Maybe I can help you out. What initial was it?”

“Mc.”

Ross nodded, avoided eye contact.

“Mr. Berman?”

“Sorry,” the squirrelly man replied, “but it doesn't mean anything to me.”

“It's just another one of those things. The life of the unconscious, right? Good-bye, Mr. Berman.”

Once they were back in their Buick and drying off from the rain, Konquist relayed the highlights of his chat. Chau listened patiently, and once Konquist was through, they analyzed it out loud.

“So Berman is the reason Wilkerson was here at all. Berman arranged it.”

“Seems so.”

“So Berman's in cahoots with the Serendipity Group.”

“Seems so.”

“But why did it have to happen here? Why go through all the trouble? Why not just do the deed in Wilkerson's hometown?”

“I don't know.”

“And where does Father Hacksaw fall in with all this?”

“I don't know.”

“And if Berman is in cahoots with the Serendipity Group, why did he warn Wilkerson?”

“I don't know. Change of heart?”

“It doesn't add up.”

“Nothing about this case adds up.”

“Say it again, Abe. I think I like hearing you say it.”

“I really hate this fucking case.”

“There it is,” said Chau.

“So who was on the phone?”

“Oh, you're going to love this.”

“I doubt it.”

“The guys who were outside Hoyt's house got the order to bring him in? They knock on the door. Nothing. They check the windows. Nobody's in sight. They go around back. French doors are unlocked so they enter.”

“Oh Christ.”

“No, it gets better. They search the house. Ground floor, top floor. Room by room. Henry Hoyt and his wife, who has a significant limp, have vanished, right from under their noses. You think they're in Paris, Abe?”

Konquist scowled at the universe, and he was convinced, absolutely convinced, the universe was laughing right back at him.

After locking up the bookstore, Xana and Em unwound at Dr. Bombay's Underwater Tea Party near Emory. Xana ordered a Darjeeling with milk and Em ordered a chocolate coconut iced black tea and they brought their drinks into the adjoining room and sat at one of the wooden rectangular tables. The walls were bookcases and the bookcases were stuffed with unsorted pre-owned paperbacks. Em had worked her way through undergrad at Dr. Bombay's and Xana had stopped in Dr. Bombay's every now and then for a sip of authentic tea. They must have seen each other a dozen times, but it took ten years and Alcoholics Anonymous to bring them together.

Em loved to share their story with her friends. She found it so romantic. She especially enjoyed telling that story to her friends from AA.

Xana had shared their story once, to an ex of hers, Madeline, who now worked for a private security company out of DC. Xana had shared it in an effort to draw out a pint of jealousy from Madeline, who was doing annoyingly well at her position and therefore deserved a bit of pain. But no. Madeline had congratulated Xana and had wished her well and had sounded genuine while doing it and Xana, upon hanging up, promptly went for a walk and very nearly purchased a six-pack of Heineken, only realizing she had even picked up the six-pack of Heineken when the mini-mart attendant had asked for her ID.

“I think I've finally figured it out,” she said at the meeting that night. “Addiction is that fucking demon from
The Exorcist
. It's Pazuzu.”

Comparing addiction to a demon was hardly groundbreaking, but Xana had felt better after talking, and everyone in the room knew what she meant, and that was the night Em had asked her to move into her apartment—provided Xana promised not to smoke. Naturally, Xana had assumed she meant not smoke indoors, but she learned otherwise the second day of their cohabitation, when they were at Kroger, playfully teasing, back and forth, each time one of them reached to put an item in the cart. Shopping took three hours, and by the time they reached the register, they both had the giggles, and so it was with a goofy grin that Xana asked the cashier for a carton of Newports.

Em transitioned from silly to stricken in a heartbeat.

“You promised.” Her voice was breathy. Her eyes hardened over. “You promised.”

At the teahouse, the gaggle of undergrads reeking of cigarette smoke crowded the table next to theirs. Xana's mouth dried up like a sand-swept cave. No amount of Darjeeling could help.

“Want to go in the other room?” asked Em. She must have seen her suffering. “You don't have to tough it out.”

“What doesn't kill you leads to secondhand smoke.”

“You say that like it's a good thing.”

“Nobody knows the trouble I feel. Nobody knows my sorrow.”

“Let's go into the other room.”

Em stood up. Xana remained seated. Em sat back down.

The undergrads, oblivious to the drama next door, continued their discussion about Camus. The philosopher? Nope. They all apparently had a Professor Camus who taught inorganic chemistry and who was the absolute worst. Camus began each class with a quiz. He refused to reply to any emails not sent from an official college account. He was never late, never absent. Camus had dandruff.

By their twelfth complaint, Xana stood up and walked her half-empty cup of Darjeeling into the other room. Em joined her shortly thereafter. There were no available seats, so they loitered by the front door.

Em was amused.

“You're OK with poisonous fumes but can't tolerate a healthy post-class bitch session?”

“I'm a puzzle wrapped inside a pretzel.”

“I do like pretzels.”

They kissed, briefly. Nobody stared. Nobody minded. College neighborhoods were nice like that. If only, mused Xana, they weren't infested with college students. Not that she had ever minded the stares and whispers that had accompanied her public displays of affection. Not Xana, who had never found a button she didn't enjoy pushing. So what was it about college students like the knuckleheads in the other room that she found so obnoxious? Was it their first-world problems? Was it their incessant negativity?

The truth struck her on the way home, as Em deftly traversed the rain-slick streets in her Camry hybrid. Xana tuned out the NPR jibberjabber and reflected on the fact that the privilege those undergraduates possessed that had so riled her up had everything to do with their…health. Hayley was supposed to be an undergraduate. Hayley, who never would have complained about a daily quiz. Who would have dutifully and without question followed the email policy. Who never would have been absent. Hayley, who would be dead in a year.

Xana realized, with an uncommon heaviness, that she had left the room to keep from giving each of the undergraduates a concussion. Her anger had been so submerged that it took a matter of reflection just to recognize its existence. She was changing. Be it Em's influence, be it Hayley, be it sobriety, she was changing. For the better? Now, that was a complicated question.

And speaking of complicated, lo and behold: As they pulled into their reserved spot in the apartment complex, Em and Xana noticed a pair of Atlanta's finest standing with steel-rod posture outside their front door.

“What the heck?” asked Em.

Xana, who knew what the heck, kept her mouth shut. She could have confessed all, then and there, but she didn't. Of course not. That would have been the safe thing to do. Safe for herself, safe for their relationship. Open communication, if not from the start then starting now. Better to come from her than a pair of strangers, right? Ha.

Maybe Xana hadn't changed so much after all.

The cops introduced themselves—Aguirre and Reeves—and then asked Xana and Em to introduce themselves.

“Mind if we see your IDs?” Officer Aguirre asked.

Em produced her driver's license. Xana, not having her driver's license back just quite yet, produced a Kroger Plus Card.

Aguirre handed back the driver's license, showed the Kroger Plus Card to Reeves.

“Ma'am, do you have any other unique form of ID?” asked Officer Reeves.

“I have my fingerprints. I have my teeth. You can DNA my hair if you want.”

Em, sensing hostility, interjected, “What is this about, Officers?”

Aguirre and Reeves suggested they all discuss this inside, and then suggested they be the ones who entered the apartment first. After a nod from Xana, Em handed over her keys. Aguirre opened the door and entered. Reeves followed, instructing Em and Xana to wait outside for a moment.

“Xana?” asked Em.

Xana did not elaborate.

Shame? Stubbornness? All of the above?

Officer Reeves reappeared and he signaled that it was safe for them to enter. Enter they did.

“Want some coffee?” Em asked.

Xana smiled to herself.

The cops declined Em's offer. Then all four of them sat down.

“We're your security detail for tonight,” Officer Reeves explained. “We'll be here from now until the morning, at which point we will be relieved by our replacements. Their names are Vance and Hensley. Do you understand?”

“Do we…Officers, what is this about?”

Aguirre looked to Xana. “Have you really not told your friend what…? Wow. OK.”

“Told me what? Xana?”

“A credible threat has been made against Miss Marx. We are here for protection.”

Em didn't take her eyes off Xana.

Xana didn't take her eyes off Officer Aguirre. “The credible threat was made for October twelfth. Today's only the tenth. Have you received new information that has changed that fact?”

“We're not at liberty to discuss that, ma'am.”

“You know I'm just going to hound Detective Konquist and Detective Chau and one of them is going to tell me eventually, right?”

“You do what you need to do, ma'am. We'll do what we need to do. One of us will remain inside and one of us will be stationed outside.”

“You say that as if we don't have a choice in the matter. We do.”

“Do you really want to choose to be less safe, ma'am? Do you really want to choose to endanger your neighbors? Do you really want to choose to endanger your friend?”

“Girlfriend. She's my girlfriend.”

Em got up and walked, mutely, into the bathroom.

“Em? Em, wait. Em?”

Em shut the door in Xana's face. Not loudly. But definitively.

Fuck.

“I understand your protocol,” Xana said, returning to the cops. Everything about her, body and voice alike, was weighed down as if with manacles. “If you've been briefed about your protectees, you know I used to work for the Bureau. Just tell me what's changed. Please.”

Aguirre and Reeves considered her request. It was Reeves who finally answered.

“Henry Hoyt has gone missing.”

It was Aguirre who added the kicker.

“The last item in his browser history on his home computer was directions here to your apartment.”