Icarus. (30 page)

And she thought so.

But then why was she still angry? And why was she still so afraid?

– "-"-"THE MISTAKE How could he be dead? It was impossible. Impossible!

They were supposed to spend the rest of their lives together.

They were supposed to love each other and help each other and be together forever.

Kid was too good to live, that's what it was. Too good and too handsome and too pure. He wasn't perfect – oh, no, he made some mistakes. That night at the party, Kid had said that was a mistake. But it wasn't. No, no, no. It was anything but a mistake. It was perfect. Perfect and wonderful and… and…

Over.

It would never happen again. No more perfect moments. No more love.

That was always the way, wasn't it? People were jealous, weren't they? People were lonely and sad and wounded. People always wanted to destroy love, didn't they?

Yes, they did.

But this time they'd be sorry.

This time they'd be really sorry.

Just like Kid. Poor, poor Kid. He was dead. No more love for Kid, either. No more perfection.

No more mistakes.

– "-"-"THE DESTINATION One was as good as dead to her and now the other was dead.

So why wasn't she more depressed?

Perhaps because there was something eminently fair about it all. Something so bloody symmetrical.

As you sow, so shall ye reap. There was something comforting in that, wasn't there? He who inflicts pain shall have pain inflicted upon him.

It was God's way, wasn't it?

Or perhaps it was the devil's.

Either way.

It worked for her.

Jack knew he should be working out, should be on the treadmill and lifting weights and stretching, but this was his sixth day without even venturing into the gym. He was beginning to feel stiff, his hip was aching just a tad, but he wasn't ready to go back to that ritual yet. It seemed disrespectful, somehow, to use the equipment without Kid. Maybe it was an excuse, he decided. Maybe he was just lazy or tired or maybe he didn't really care anymore. Either way, he didn't feel like pushing himself, so he didn't.

He hadn't left his apartment yet that day and it was nearly 3 p.m. That surprised him. He didn't know quite what had happened to the rest of the day, but he felt he should do something. So he rang for the elevator and went down to the lobby to get the mail. A perfectly good activity.

There was a new doorman. Jack thought his name was Micah, and Micah had clearly been told that Jack was a sports nut. So they exchanged comments on the Knicks (already down two-zip to the Lakers in the finals) and whether the Mets' six-game winning streak actually meant anything. Micah thought that it did. Jack was not so sure.

Jack grabbed his mail out of his box and started sifting through it on the way back up in the elevator. Nothing spectacular. A brochure for a cruise ship. A couple of magazines. A few bills.

Back in his apartment, he flipped through the magazines, noted an article he wanted to read in The New Yorker, didn't find anything that interested him in Vanity Fair. Caroline had been the magazine reader in the family but Jack had renewed all her subscriptions. It was another tenuous way to keep her presence in the apartment. He knew it didn't make much sense but he couldn't bring himself to cancel them.

There was not much personal in the day's mail and nothing really interesting. Until Jack got to a small, square envelope. It was addressed to him and it had the right address but no zip code. The handwritten return address said that the letter had come from Kid Demeter. It gave his address, 487 Duane Street, and his zip code. Jack checked the date on the front of the envelope. The small, faint red circle said that it had been mailed the day that Kid had killed himself. Six days earlier. It had obviously spent a few extra days at the post office due to the incomplete mailing address.

Jack used his finger to open the top of the envelope. Inside was an invitation. Not a fancy one – it came from a preprinted packet that said things like "You Are Invited To" and then had a blank to be filled in by the sender. This invitation said that Jack was invited to Kid Demeter's graduation ceremony from Hunter College. He was receiving his MBA. The ceremony was in two weeks. At the bottom of the invitation, Kid had scrawled: "I know it's inconceivable to you that I actually made it, so you better come see for yourself." Then he signed his name and after that added a P.S. All it said was "Thanks," and the word was underlined three times, with three exclamation marks after it.

Jack put the invitation down on the coffee table, went into the kitchen, grabbed a medium-sized plastic bottle of Poland Spring water, and gulped down about a third of the bottle. Then he went back to the living room, picked the invitation back up. He stared at it for a good five minutes and finally he understood what it was that was churning inside him. He actually spoke aloud. He said, "Goddamn!" and swung his fist in the air, an involuntary action. He stuffed the invitation back into the envelope and, clutching it in his hand, stepped into the elevator, took it all the way down to the garage, and started up his black BMW.

On the way downtown, he used his cell phone to call the Eighth Precinct in Tribeca to get their exact address.

– "-"-"SERGEANT PATIENCE MCCOY didn't seem unhappy to see him. But, then again, she did not seem happy, either. She did offer him a cup of coffee, which he accepted.

"It's no Jamaican Blue," she alerted him, "but it'll give you a buzz."

"It's fine," Jack told her after he took his first sip and she seemed genuinely glad to hear that.

"Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Keller? Today's kind of a busy day."

"I understand, Sergeant. I… um… I feel a little awkward doing this but I didn't know how else to handle it."

"No need to feel awkward, believe me. Nothing you've got for me is gonna be anywhere near as weird as the usual shit that comes across my desk. You can trust me on that one.

Jack nodded, reached into his pants pocket, and pulled out the envelope that had come from Kid. He removed the invitation and dropped it on McCoy's desk.

"Okay," she said after examining it. "What's the story?"

"It's an invitation to Kid Demeter's graduation ceremony."

"I can see that."

"Don't you get it?"

"Mr. Keller, I don't even get what I'm supposed to get."

Jack tried to keep his voice down. He could feel the excitement building inside him. "He mailed an invitation to his graduation the same day he died."

"Ahhhh," McCoy said. "Now I get it. You think this is-"

"I don't think. It meant he was planning for two weeks ahead. No sane person does that, then jumps off a building."

"I agree with you. No sane person does do that. Would you like to know what I think it means?"

"Yes, I would," Jack said.

"It can mean several things. One possibility is that we are not talking about a sane person here."

Jack kept himself under control. "Sergeant, Kid didn't kill himself. I think this is proof."

McCoy nodded, chewed on her lip for a few seconds. Then she picked up the phone on her desk and stabbed her finger quickly at three numbers on the base, an inside extension. When someone answered on the other end, she said, "Do me a favor, honey, and bring me over the file on the George Demeter suicide. That's right… that's the one."

Jack flinched at the word "suicide" but said nothing. In a few moments, a young black woman, slight with very bad skin, walked over to McCoy's desk and dropped off a thin folder. McCoy mumbled a thanks, pulled the papers out – official-looking forms – and studied them for a few seconds.

"I'm gonna give you some other proof, Mr. Keller. Would you like to know what this report says?"

Jack nodded but she wasn't looking at him, so she had to shift her eyes up. He nodded again and said, "Yes."

"I'll start with the ME's findings. That's medical examiner, in case you haven't been watching your NYPD Blue." She squinted at the report and shook her head. "Your friend didn't just jump off that terrace – he flew. At least he had enough LSD in his system to make him think he could fly."

"That has to be a mistake."

"No mistake. We also found a dozen tabs in his medicine cabinet."

Jack was incredulous. And getting angry now. "Kid was a health nut. All he ate was goddamn vegetables! He was totally antidrugs. He didn't even drink beer."

"Wrong again. We found beer in his system, too. Not a lot, but some. Which brings me to the second possibility. Maybe he wanted to jump, didn't have the nerve, had to fortify himself, so to speak. Or maybe you're right, maybe he didn't kill himself. Maybe he just ate too many pills and thought he was taking a little stroll into some low-hanging cloud. Accidental death due to drug intake. I'm willing to put that down on the official report if that'll make everyone feel better." She held her hand up so Jack would stay quiet and she glanced back down at the report. "I'll give you all the details now, Mr. Keller, if you just stay calm for a second." Jack forced himself to settle back in his chair. "He also had sex shortly before he died," she then went on. "In his apartment. The sheets showed traces of semen and vaginal secretions. That's a bad phrase, isn't it? Vaginal secretions. Anyway… if you'd like to know what we think happened, it's fairly simple. He's got a woman over and whoever she was, she gives him a goodbye taste. Maybe she breaks it to him that the affair's over. Whatever, she says something to him that doesn't sit well. She splits, he drowns his sorrows, has himself a serious bummer of a trip, and over the side he goes. Accidental or on purpose, it doesn't really matter all that much now, does it?"

Jack half raised his hand, as if he were in school, waiting to see if he could ask a question. When Sergeant McCoy nodded, Jack said, "Isn't it possible somebody pushed him?"

"Who?" she said. "A robber? We do our homework, you know. There was no sign of forced entry. The man's wallet was full, the stereo, TV, all intact. Or maybe you think it was the woman? Still a no go. There was no evidence of any kind of struggle. No scratches, no skin under his nails… besides which, take your choice, robber or sex partner, he looked like he could take care of himself."

"But he couldn't," Jack said. His words were not forceful now. They were quiet and urgent. "I can't tell you how many times I saved his goddamn ass when he was growing up. Sergeant, I knew him. I knew him as if he were my own son. You don't understand."

"Evidence, Jack. That's what I understand."

Jack picked up the invitation again but McCoy cut him off before he could get a word out.

"No, no, no. That's not evidence. That's a piece of paper." She tapped a notebook on top of her desk, picked it up, and started flipping through it. "This is my little casebook. You know what's in here? I got me a liquor store holdup gone bad. Know what my evidence is? A dead clerk and an empty cash register. And I've got it on videotape… I got a hooker knifed to death not two blocks from here. Found in a hallway. My evidence? I saw her intestines hanging out onto the floor from the slit in her belly. How's that?" She looked up at him now, couldn't read his face. Couldn't tell if that was stoic defeat or determination she was seeing. "Look," she went on. "Life doesn't always make sense. And neither does death – at least not the deaths I see. But sometimes it is simple. Your friend got high, your friend let it fly. End of story. Hey, isn't that from a movie? Some guy, a bad guy, I think, always ends his sentences with 'End of story!' Who was that?"

"I don't know," Jack said. "No idea."

She furrowed her brow, motioned for Jack to be quiet, then nodded suddenly and said, "The Longest Yard. That's what it was. That Burt Reynolds movie. And that guy from Green Acres, that's who said it. He played the warden. 'End of stor-ee!'"

She looked relieved that she'd thought of it. Jack realized she was not someone who liked to leave any small details unrecognized. And then she looked embarrassed that she'd gotten sidetracked by a piece of movie trivia. She looked at him for an awkward few moments in silence. And then shrugged. That was the end of her embarrassment. It was a signal that she had nothing else to say.

"So that's it?" Jack asked. "You're moving on?"

"Honey," Patience McCoy told him, a touch of sadness in her voice, tapping her casebook one more time, "I'm already gone."

– "-"-"JACKIE GIMME A break," Dom grumbled.

The meat market was Jack's next stop and he hoped this visit would prove to be more satisfying than the previous one. Based on the first twenty seconds of conversation, it wasn't going to be.

"I feel like I have to do something," Jack said.

"What? What the hell are you gonna be able to do? Find some mysterious killer? Who probably doesn't even exist?"

"I know it sounds a little crazy…"

"No. It doesn't just sound crazy. It sounds unbelievably fucking stupid!"

"I'm not asking you for permission."

"Then what the hell are you doin' here?"

"I just need to explain it. I need it to make sense to someone."

"Well, it don't make no sense to me."

"Then stop being such a stubborn cranky old bastard and let me explain it to you!"

"Nothin' but grief," Dom said. "Over thirty years, nothin' but grief from you…" But then he saw the expression on Jack's face, really saw what was in his eyes, and he said, "Okay. So explain."

Jack stood up. Paced once around the butcher-block table, picked up one of Dom's carving knives and clutched it tightly.

"When Caroline died," he began, "nobody knows what that was like for me. Believe me, not even you. I didn't just lose her, I felt that I'd lost her, that I was responsible." Before Dom could interrupt, he said, "Yeah, yeah, I know. I know all the shrink stuff. But I also know what I did and how I feel. No one else thinks that, that I somehow caused it, I get that; not her mother, not you, not the cops. But I do. If I hadn't gone charging up there, who the hell knows what would have happened? Maybe whoever that animal was would have just taken the necklace and gotten the hell out of there. And, Dom, it's not just her. It's…"