The Anniversary Man (47 page)

′What the fuck did you expect me to do?′ Grant said. ′My daughter is dead. My wife is a mess, Detective, an absolute mess. Five months and we have nothing. Mia died back in June. It′s now November. You have any idea—′ Grant shook his head and looked down. ′No, you don′t, do you? You have absolutely no idea what it′s like to lose a child.′

Irving didn′t speak.

′So I hired someone, and he made some inquiries, and no, they′ve come to nothing, so at least I know that you didn′t miss anything obvious—′

′Mr Grant, I assure you that we′re doing—′

′Everything you possibly can. Sure, Detective, I′ve heard it so many times, how you′re doing everything you can. I don′t want to hear that any more.′ Grant rose from his chair and buttoned his overcoat. He was unshaven, his hair was tousled. He wore odd socks - one brown, one black - and the kind of moccasins that you slipped on to empty the trash, not to visit a precinct house.

′I need to ask you not to leave the city,′ Irving said.

Grant buried his hands in his pockets. He shrugged his shoulders. ′Where the hell would I go, Detective? I′ve got nowhere to go. I want to see the end of this thing more than anyone. I want to know who killed my daughter, and why.′

′I have to tell you, Mr Grant, that it′s sometimes the case—′

′That you never actually find out who did it? Is that what you′re going to tell me?′

′It′s unfortunately the truth, Mr Grant.′

′I know,′ Grant replied. ′I′m a lawyer. I spend my life defending people like Desmond Roarke. I see both sides of it, and sometimes I wonder which is worse, you know? No offense intended, but I read through case files where the investigative work is just bullshit amateur—′ He stopped mid-sentence. ′I′m going to leave now, Detective Irving, before I say something that both of us are going to regret.′

Grant held out his hand. Irving took it and they shook.

′Have to go home and tell my wife that there′s no news.′

′I′m sorry, Mr Grant, I really am.′

Grant nodded, but said nothing.

′Oh, Mr Grant? The name of the PI you hired.′

′Roberts. Karl Roberts.′

′And he′s based here in New York.′

′Yes,′ Grant replied. ′I′m sure you′ll find him in the Yellow Pages.′

Irving showed Grant out, and moments later tracked down Gifford in the incident room.

′Get me Gregory Hill,′ Irving said. ′Wherever he is, whatever they′re doing with him, I need him now.′

′W
e′re being played . . . we′re being played like a fucking orchestra,′ Irving said.

He dropped into the chair facing Gifford. A squad had been sent out to the address at East 35th and Third to get Gregory Hill. Forensics were all over the place down there, trying to find anything at all that might connect Hill to Grant or vice versa.

′There′s no connection between Greg Hill and Anthony Grant. I′m sure of it,′ Irving said. ′Our anniversary guy called up Desmond Roarke and said he was Grant. He set Roarke do this thing tonight. Picked a family of six—′

′You think that′s all there is to it?′ Gifford asked. ′He wanted us to know he could get to a family of six?′

Irving didn′t reply. He could never have been so optimistic. The man they were dealing with had murdered eleven - all the way from the Grant girl to the unidentified ′orange socks′ girl.

Irving glanced at his watch. It was approaching two a.m. It would be November the 13th for another twenty-two hours. He walked to the board on the wall, looked at each of the victims′ faces in turn, and wondered for the thousandth time at the insanity of someone who believed that such destruction and horror was their true calling. This would be their legacy, just like Shawcross and Bundy and Henry Lee Lucas and the others. Too many others . . .

′You get the ID on the last one yet?′ Gifford asked.

Irving shook his head. ′No, we still don′t know who the fuck she was . . . two weeks now.′

The internal line rang. Gifford picked it up. He listened, thanked whoever was on the line, and then hung up.

′He′s here,′ he said. ′Gregory Hill.′

 

Hill was still visibly shaken. He was one of the several hundred people who′d been reached by Irving′s operation. He′d been contacted four days earlier regarding the potential danger to himself and his family, and had been particularly alert to any untoward occurrences in the vicinity of his property. It was this alertness that had been Desmond Roarke′s undoing, for the moment that Hill had heard something from the direction of the garage he′d called 911.

′We appreciate your coming down here,′ Irving told him. ′I understand that this has been a very traumatic experience for you and your family.′

′Un-fucking-real,′ Hill said. ′Was he the guy you were looking for? The one that the police warned me about last week?′

′We don′t know yet,′ Irving said. ′But your vigilance at least resulted in his arrest. We are obviously very grateful for your co-operation—′

′Hey, no problem. Whoever the fuck he was he was trying to break into my house. If you guys hadn′t come to see me last week and told me about this I doubt I′d have even been awake. We′re just really appreciative, you know? A little shook up, but thankful that it wasn′t one hell of a lot worse.′

′If it′s okay with you, Mr Hill, I wanted to check a few things with you. I could wait until tomorrow, but I always figure it′s best to get these formalities out of the way as early as possible so you can get back to your life.′

Hill nodded.

′Anthony Grant,′ Irving said matter-of-factly.

Hill frowned. ′What about him?′

Irving′s expression visibly changed. ′You know a Mr Anthony Grant?′

′The lawyer? That Anthony Grant?′

Irving looked at Gifford. Gifford looked like a hare in headlights.

′The lawyer, yes. You′re telling me you know him, Mr Hill?′

′What the fuck is this? Has that asshole got something to do with this? Did he have something to do with this guy trying to break into my house?′

′Well . . . well we thought not, Mr Hill, but now you′re saying you know him?′

Hill started to get out of his chair, and then he sat down again. ′Jesus, man, what is this? Tell me what the fuck is going on here? How the fuck is he connected to this?′

′Calm down a minute, Mr Hill,′ Irving said, finding it very difficulty to remain calm himself. ′Tell me how you know Anthony Grant.′

Hill crossed his arms on the table, and then leaned forward and rested his forehead against them. ′Fucking asshole,′ he said under his breath. ′Fucking asshole—′

′Mr Hill?′ Irving prompted.

Hill looked up suddenly. There were tears in his eyes. ′Five years ago,′ he said, his voice an angry whisper. ′Five years ago he . . . my wife . . . shit, fuck! Asshole motherfucker!′

′He what, Mr Hill?′

′He had an affair with my wife, okay? Anthony fucking Grant had an affair with my wife. That′s what he did. Damned near ruined my fucking life!′

Irving nodded at Gifford. Gifford nodded back, already on his way to the door.

Irving waited until he was alone with Gregory Hill, and then he leaned forward, put his hand on Hill′s arm, and said, ′Tell me, Mr Hill. Tell me exactly what happened.′

I
t was the better part of an hour before Irving, Gifford and Anthony Grant were reunited at the Fourth Precinct. Grant was agitated, having been fetched from his home for the second time, and though he′d been told only that there were other questions that needed to be answered, that no, they could not wait until morning, he had been relatively compliant. The usual bluff and bravado that spouted from the mouths of lawyers was evident by its absence.

At ten past three in the morning, Ray Irving sat down across from Anthony Grant and asked him a simple question that changed the man′s color and broke a sweat on his forehead.

′Tell me, Mr Grant . . . tell me about Laura Hill.′

Grant, visibly anxious, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it once more. He looked at Irving, turned and looked at Vernon Gifford, and then asked if he needed a lawyer.

Irving shook his head. ′We′re not charging you with anything, Mr Grant, because right now we have nothing to charge you with. However, if you don′t tell me the truth right now then we′re looking at obstruction at the very least—′

Grant raised his hand. ′Tell me something,′ he said. ′Did Greg Hill have anything to do with what happened to my daughter?′

′Why on earth would you think such a thing, Mr Grant?′

′Because of what happened with Laura. Because I had an affair with Hill′s wife.′

′Why didn′t you mention this earlier, Mr Grant?′

′Is this the house that was broken into? What I′m supposed to have paid Desmond Roarke for?′

′Time to answer some questions, Mr Grant, not ask them. What happened between you and Laura Hill?′

′We had an affair.′

′How long ago?′

′Five years, a little more than five years ago.′

′And how long did this affair last?′

′Seven, eight months . . . it ended noisily.′

′Meaning?′

′Her husband found out and beat the shit out of her.′

′Your wife didn′t know?′

′No, she didn′t know.′ Grant closed his eyes, and for a moment looked utterly overwhelmed. ′Evelyn didn′t know, I′m sure of that. But I think Mia might have known.′

′Why do you think that?′

′Just my perception. She was a bright girl, very bright indeed, and one time I picked her up from school after I′d been with Laura Hill and Mia said I smelled of perfume. I said it must have been a client. She laughed, said that I was getting too close to my clients. It was just the way she said it, that was all.′

′Hence your failure to mention it earlier.′

′Mention what earlier? That I had an affair with someone? You didn′t ask me about that, and you didn′t mention Greg Hill. You didn′t tell me that that was the house where you caught Roarke—′

′I haven′t told you now, Mr Grant.′

Grant smiled knowingly, and shook his head. ′You can′t pull this shit on me, Detective Irving. The mere fact that you have asked me about Laura Hill tells me that it was the Hill′s house that Roarke was trying to break into . . . otherwise where the fuck would her name have come from?′

Irving nodded patiently. ′Okay,′ he said. ′Cards on the table for once. Desmond Roarke was arrested trying to break into the home of Gregory and Laura Hill. Are you going to tell me that you know nothing about this?′

′Yes, Detective, I am. I know nothing about this. You think I set Roarke up to break into that house?′

′It′s a possibility, yes.′

′What on earth for?′

′Because you believed that Hill might have had something to do with the death of your daughter . . . because you thought there might be some evidence in the house.′

′Jesus Christ, that′s stretching it a bit. You think Greg Hill killed Mia? For revenge you mean, to get back at me for sleeping with his wife? Well, if that′s the case then why the hell did he wait five years?′

′Maybe he didn′t mean to kill her? Maybe he intended to assault her sexually and he killed her by mistake—′

Irving watched as Grant clenched and unclenched his fists, as he breathed deeply - in and out, in and out, trying to do all he could to center himself, to keep himself in check, to withhold his rage and hatred.

′If Greg Hill . . .′ Grant paused, opened his eyes, looked back at Irving.

′You said that Greg Hill beat his wife.′

′Yes, he beat the shit out of her repeatedly, Detective. He beat her so many times she could barely speak for a fortnight.′

′And she reported this?′

Grant laughed. ′Report it? Report it to whom?′

′To us. To the police.′

′Did she, hell! No, she did not report it. What the fuck do you think that would have done, eh? You think that would have solved the problem? The guy was insane with rage. He was always a jealous bastard, but when he found out that she was having an affair he threatened to kill her, threatened to kill me—

′You′re serious?′

′Of course I′m serious. You don′t think I′m making this up?′

′So if he beat her, and he threatened to kill her, and he threatened to kill you as well . . . does it not then seem possible that he was capable of killing your daughter, even if it was unintentional?′

Grant didn′t reply. He looked away toward the door, and when he turned back to Irving there were tears in his eyes. ′Possible?′ Grant shook his head. ′I don′t know anymore what is and isn′t possible, Detective. I′ve lost my only child. My wife is devastated, my marriage is coming apart at the seams. Now, as if this wasn′t enough, the fact that I had an affair with someone five years ago is going to be dredged up again—′

′And you′re concerned that your wife will find out about it?′

Grant used the cuff of his shirt to wipe his eyes. ′I think she has more than enough to deal with already, don′t you?′

 

By four Irving was coming apart himself. He sat at his desk in the incident room, Hill and Anthony Grant having returned to their respective homes, both of them cautioned that they were to remain within the city, that there would be further questions.

′In essence,′ he told Vernon Gifford, ′we have circumstantial evidence and hearsay. There′s nothing to prove that Grant did or didn′t contact Roarke. Roarke never spoke to him directly, and voices . . . well, what someone said on the telephone is about as inadmissible as it comes as far as evidence is concerned. The fact that Hill beat his wife is simply hearsay from Grant. We can speak to Laura Hill tomorrow, but . . .′ Irving shook his head. ′Who the fuck knows, eh? Old wounds have been opened up. She might talk, she might not. If her husband is the crazy fuck that Grant says he is then she might be too scared to say a thing.′