Ice Cap (11 page)

“You're right. You got a whompin' lot of snow out here. What the hell happened?”

“It's the beginning of the apocalypse. But I'm ready. All stocked up with fresh drinking water, cabernet, and eyeliner. Just the essentials,” I said, and immediately regretted it. Why am I joking with this person who I actually fear is planning to make a fool out of me?

When he smiled, big creases formed in his cheeks, too grand to be dimples but with the same effect. His hair was curly, not unlike Sam's, but in a looser weave and more fitting to his age, which I guessed to be early thirties. His teeth, also well exposed by the smile, looked too straight to be real. He was only slightly taller than me and thin—even his down vest and bulky flannel shirt expressed a pervasive slightness and delicacy. On his nose perched a pair of silver wire-rim glasses, round, like John Lennon's.

“I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me,” he said, gently bringing things back to the appropriate level.

“I'm not sure what we have to talk about. I can't discuss anything about the case or the police investigation that isn't already in the public record.”

He held up a small recorder in his right hand and a little notebook in his left, and looked at me inquiringly. Without hesitation, I pointed at the notebook.

“Got it. Had to ask,” he said.

“Indeed.”

“I understand the limits of your discretion in regards to an active case, but I'm also interested in some of your prior involvements. In particular the Windsong bombing, where you were seriously injured.”

Ah, I thought, Roger's been digging around the archives. Which these days means doing a Google search of all the names connected to Tad Buczek's murder. His own paper would have the richest repository of information on yours truly as a result of the Windsong thing. The strategy was clear. Get me talking on safe ground, then slide me unexpectedly into forbidden territory. Nice try, Roger, I'm hip to you wily reporters.

“That's hardly breaking news. The case was firmly closed years ago.”

“I'm not thinking about the case. I'm thinking about you. What about being terribly hurt in a car bombing motivated you to leave a comfortable practice in real-estate law and become a crusader for criminal justice? For the defense, no less. Why not join the District Attorney's Office, or the Attorney General's? Why jump immediately to the dark side?”

Oh no, I thought. Not that.

“I'd argue your characterization of criminal defense as the dark side,” I said. “There's darkness in the justice system, no doubt, but it's not reserved for one side or the other. There's plenty to go around.”

He started writing in his notebook. Oh crap, I thought. What am I doing?

“Listen, Mr. Angstrom,” I said. “If you're thinking of writing a story about me, you've made a sadly misguided decision. First off, I'm so constrained by confidentiality, even regarding past cases, that there's precious little information you can glean, even if I wanted to provide it, which I don't. I won't cooperate at all. I'd rather stick a hot poker in my eye than show up in the newspapers. And that's off the record. The hot-poker part.”

“After reading about your injuries from the car bombing,” he said, “I was, frankly, braced for some disfigurement. Scarring, at least. And here I am looking at you, and actually, there's nothing of the sort. You're really quite attractive.”

I checked my watch and saw that it was a little past three, outside the time zone for scotch on the rocks, but well within white wine territory. So I ordered some. Angstrom responded with a vodka martini, asked for both shaken and stirred. I waited until both glasses were on the bar.

Here's the thing. The plastic surgeons on the Upper East Side of Manhattan who put my face back together did a stellar job. So stellar that I look better than I had before, despite the freckles, which for some reason they felt worth preserving. That doesn't mean I think I look good in a general sense. My nose is too small, my blue eyes too pale. My hair's an unruly mess on the best of days. Okay, figure not so bad, though it's getting harder to keep it that way. So when men say I'm attractive, my automatic thought is, What are you trying to get from me?

“What are you trying to get from me?” I asked.

He drew back into his stool.

“What do you mean?”

He looked genuinely taken aback, which gave me pause. So I tried a different angle.

“I spend a lot of time with police detectives and prosecutors. It may not surprise you that they use a variety of tactics such as misdirection, empathy, emotional bonding, even flattery, to extract information from people who might be a little reluctant to give it up. I'm guessing guys in your business do approximately the same thing. So, let's skip all the manipulation and cut to the chase. Tell me what you want.”

He lit me up with another of those dimpled grins.

“I want to write a story about you. I think you're really interesting. And I think you're a lovely woman. Sorry if that sounds manipulative. It's really what I think.”

I'd already checked to see if he wore a wedding ring. He didn't. So all I had to do was smile back at him as I climbed off my bar stool.

“I'm sorry, too. But I can't do this.”

The weather had decided to change again while I was in the restaurant. The gloomy gray sky had turned blue again, and the breeze was coming in off the ocean, so it was both noticeably warmer and seasoned with a light touch of salt. The surrounding snow was a blinding white under the hard light of the sun, low in the sky and threatening to turn into an azure sunset. I had to put on my sunglasses for the short trip from the front door of Mr. Sato's place to the rear of the building and the door that led up to my fortress, a place where I could convince myself I was safely locked away from all intrusion, from the outside world and my own impulsive and benighted heart.

 

9

As soon as night had thoroughly fallen, my crisp, professional outfit propelled me out of the office, down the stairs, and into the Volvo, which I drove east down Montauk Highway.

Too lazy to change, too uncomfortable to just hang around in a tight skirt and pantyhose, too unsettled to spend more time by myself, I followed the urge to escape into what I thought was a sheltering anonymity.

I knew a place. It was a tiny French restaurant run by a real Frenchman who honored the Gallic custom of treating paying customers with haughty disregard (mostly an unfair stereotype—when actually in France I've rarely had a rude moment). The restaurant was in Amagansett, the last village on the South Fork before reaching the terminus in Montauk. I'd been there only once before, hoping to practice my language skills, and instead got into a duel in which I said something in French and the owner either corrected my pronunciation—favoring Parisian inflections—or answered me in English.

This time I merely sought a dark place where I'd fit in dressed as I was, far from familiar surroundings, where I could waste some money on overpriced, underproportioned tasty food and pretend I was in a foreign country where there was no danger of anyone wanting to strike up a conversation.

The owner directed me to a small table in the corner and promptly left before I could ask for a menu and the best pinot in the house.

“Puis-j'avoir le menu et votre meilleure bouteille de pinot noir, s'il vous plaît,”
I said to him when he finally found the energy to walk the few steps from where he stood indifferently by the kitchen door.

“It is an expensive bottle,” he said.

I refused to take the bait.

“Je m'attends a rien de moins,”
I said to him. I would expect nothing less.

Ignored after that as expected, I was forced to linger interminably over the menu, which was all in French, nibble on sliced baguette, and kill about half the pinot, which, as advertised, carried a breathtaking price tag. After two-thirds of the bottle was gone, I didn't care so much.

“Would Madame like anything translated?” asked the owner when he finally buckled under the suspense and came back to my table.

I ordered the weirdest stuff I could pick out, something like snail livers on toast and pickled boar brains, and another bottle of wine.

“Cette fois, emmenez nous votre pinot noir bon marché.”

“Our least-expensive wine? We have a mediocre blend from a struggling vineyard who we'll likely not source from again. I'm sure it will suit Madame perfectly.”

The rest of the night went as hoped. The food was actually very good as long as you didn't dwell on the details, and that mediocre pinot tasted better than the first bottle, though in fairness, it was launched from a less critical plateau. Most important, my mood, generally a jumbled mix of cheerful goodwill and heart-seizing anxiety, was fully restored.

I sailed out to the car and took the measure of my mental and physical acuity. It wasn't too good. It wouldn't be the first time I called Harry and asked with abject apology if he could please come and save me from a vehicular manslaughter charge. There was even a time I couldn't reach Harry and had to call Sam. He acted like I'd given him the greatest gift in the world just to get out of bed and drive twenty miles to retrieve me and get me home in one piece. I know he did that so I wouldn't hesitate to ask him again if necessary, which only cemented the odd grip he had on a remote but exclusive piece of my heart.

Part of the night's strategy was to leave my cell phone in the car, the most certain way to ensure a complete disconnect from electronic nags. I fumbled with my keys, confirming the need to call in reinforcements, but eventually got the door open. I closed the door and meant to toss my purse on the passenger seat, but instead it landed on a man's lap.

I shrieked and went for the door handle, but two hands from behind wrapped around me and gripped the silken folds of my nice blouse. They were strong enough hands to hold me in place, even with an errant little finger that took the opportunity to stroke the top of my right breast. I grabbed the finger and started to bend it back when another player entered the scene, the round muzzle of a big semiautomatic held by the guy in the front seat, pressed into the side of my head. All motion stopped.

“Let go of me,” I forced out. “I won't go anywhere.”

“That's a cinch,” said the voice next to me.

“Let go of me or I'll snap off this finger,” I said, pulling it back another notch.

The owner of the finger loosened his grasp, but not all the way.

“Break it and you'll be dead,” said the voice behind me.

“How do I know I'm not dead anyway? Might as well take a finger with me.”

“That's just stupid,” said the same guy. I countered by pulling the finger back to near breaking point. He yelped. “Jesus, let go.”

“You first.”

He complied, helping himself to a semi-feel along the way. Once his left hand was all the way gone, I let go of his pinkie. He quickly pulled it away. The gun, however, was still stuck to my temple.

My heart fluttered in my chest and fear squeezed off my breath. The fuzzy, slightly happy wine buzz was now a blanket of semi-anesthesia of dubious benefit, as my mind furiously sought a way out.

“What's the deal, boys?” I choked out.

“Does there have to be a deal?” said the one with the gun.

I tried to turn my head toward him, but he told me to look straight ahead and keep both hands on the wheel.

“There's got to be some reason why you're risking twenty years at Sanger for assault, unlawful restraint, and use of a deadly weapon in the commission of a crime,” I said.

“I hate smart-ass lawyers,” said the guy in the back.

“You've got a lot of company,” I said. “I hate some myself.”

“I told you she had a reputation,” said the guy with the gun. “The original smart-ass.”

I risked a quick look in the rearview mirror. In the darkness of the parking lot all I could see was a shadowy form in the backseat. It was a bulky form, which was the best I could tell.

“How about putting down the gun,” I said. “Those things can just go off.”

“Is that so? Maybe that's why I'm holding it to your head in the first place.”

My mind iced over and I felt my hands going numb. I'd been threatened before, but never in such tight quarters, my Volvo now a metallic and glass box closing in on me.

“You've got to tell me what this is about,” I said. “Talk to me.”

“Do we got to talk to her?” the guy with the gun asked the other guy.

“I don't think so,” he answered, as if genuinely considering the question.

“I've got a thousand-dollar limit on my ATM card,” I said. “There's a bank right across the street.”

The guy with the gun made a soft whistle.

“A thousand bucks. Now that's some real money.”

“I can get more.”

“I bet you can.”

No less terrified, I began to feel the stirrings of inchoate rage. At this evil cruelty, at my own foolishness to think I could work in a world where things like this could happen. Suicide by career choice.

“If your intention was to frighten me, you achieved that,” I said. “Now tell me why or pull the trigger and get it over with.”

The man pushed the barrel more forcefully into my head. I pushed back, gripped the steering wheel with my deadened hands, and conjured an image of Harry, to whom I silently said,
I love you and I'm sorry to have put you through so much, but at least I saved the worst for last.

A thousand years of silence went by and then the guy pulled the gun away. The pressure was gone, but I still felt the outlines of the round tube as if it had burned a brand into my skull.

“Okay,” said the guy with the gun. “Maybe we can work out a deal. You think?” he asked the guy in the back.