The Anniversary Man (52 page)

Karen Langley looked right back at him, defiant and aggressive, and Irving launched right in again.

′So I don′t turn around and go home. I don′t think ′′Oh what the fuck, he′s probably out somewhere having a pizza, or maybe he′s gone dancing′′, you know? No, I don′t think that. I go for the worst-case scenario. I go the pessimistic route, and I figure that maybe I′ve let this guy get a little too close to what′s going on. Maybe I shouldn′t have let him go down to Central Park, even though he insisted, even though he pretty much made it a condition of his willingness to help us . . . maybe I shouldn′t have let this sick fuck find out that John Costello is on the case, that maybe I′ve set the poor bastard up to get killed. So I go in there. I make the decision, Karen, for John′s sake, not for my own fucking excitement. And what do I find?′

Irving turned away, faced the front door for a few moments, and when he turned back to Karen Langley there was something in his expression that unnerved her.

′I′ll tell you what we found, Karen. We found things that seem really strange to me. Even after all these years of seeing some of the weirdest shit that the world can offer, what I saw in there seemed really fucking strange. Okay, granted, there was no direct evidence and maybe I did fuck up, okay . . . Maybe I should have looked a little harder for him before I went breaking into his apartment, but I made a decision, a decision only I can be responsible for, and if he wants to level a formal complaint then there is a means and a method for him to do that. He is perfectly within his rights to file a complaint against me and drag me into court with a charge of harassment. As far as I′m concerned he can go hire Anthony fucking Grant to sue me in this and five other states. This is what this fucking job is about, Karen. This is about making a fucking decision, rightly or wrongly, and sticking by it, because most of the time there isn′t the luxury of review or consideration, and there certainly isn′t any opportunity to go back and do it right. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but by the time you′ve got it, it′s too fucking late—′

′What did you find?′

Ray Irving stopped. He was on a roll, he had more things to say. He had more he wanted to say. For the first time since the case had started he was taking advantage of this opportunity to vent his spleen, to empty everything out. The fact that Karen Langley considered she had a right to be pissed with him didn′t matter. She was there. She had opened her mouth to complain, and that was that. She got it coming right back at her with both barrels.

′I can′t tell you what we found, Karen,′ Irving said.

′You have something that implicates him in—′

′Karen, seriously . . . you understand this as well as I do—′

′No, Ray, I don′t, and that′s the whole point here. I don′t understand. I really don′t have the faintest fucking idea what it is you are doing—′

′Karen, I have to go,′ Irving said. ′I′ve told you everything that I can right now, and to be completely frank with you, the only reason I came out here is that my captain called me to let me know that you were at the front desk telling people to go fuck themselves. You need to knock this shit off right now, and you need to let me do my job, okay?′

′So how long are you planning on keeping him?′

′Only so long as he′s willing to stay. Right now, you are the only one who seems to be upset about this thing.′

Karen sneered. ′What the fuck would you know about it? You don′t know the guy at all. You have absolutely no idea what might be going on inside his head at this moment—′

′And that′s why he′s here, Karen, because what′s going on inside John Costello′s head might actually help us understand what the fuck we are dealing with.′ Irving leaned a little closer, lowered his voice. ′I have seventeen dead. I am not playing games. This is not a time when I am particularly concerned about whether or not someone′s feelings might get hurt.′

′That′s pretty obvious, Ray—′

′And you can skip the sarcasm, Karen. You are a newspaper reporter. I am a police detective, and you′re in my precinct. We are not in your apartment, your office, or any-fucking-place else where I have to be on my best behavior.′

′Fuck you,′ Karen Langley said.

′I think you should leave now, Karen.′

′You dare hurt him, Ray, and I′m the one who′ll go hire the fucking lawyers, you understand me?′

′Do your worst, Karen . . . right now you are not helping me one bit.′

The cold and hateful expression was there in a heartbeat. It was all Karen Langley could do to restrain herself from slapping Ray Irving as hard as possible.

′You,′ she said, ′are a fucking asshole of the first order.′

′Well hell, at least I made the grade at something, eh?′

Karen Langley turned away. She walked to the door, and as she reached out to open it she glanced back at Irving.

′If you need me,′ she said, ′forget it. You can go fuck yourself as well.′

The door opened, she walked through, slammed it shut behind her.

Irving turned, saw the desk sergeant watching him.

′First date didn′t go so good then?′ he asked.

Ray Irving smiled and shook his head. ′They never do.′

V
ernon Gifford was outside the door of the interview room, waiting for Irving′s return. ′He says you′ve betrayed him,′ was the first thing he said.

′Betrayed him?′

′That′s what he said. Says that you had no right to go into his place, and worst of all you had no right to look at his private possessions.′

′You don′t think I know this?′ Irving buried his hands in his pockets. He walked half a dozen yards down the corridor, then turned and walked back.

′You gonna keep him?′ Gifford asked.

′For what? On what basis? There′s no charge, there′s no evidence of anything—′

′Except being seriously fucking crazy. No shortage of evidence there, wouldn′t you say?′

Irving didn′t reply. He took two steps forward, opened the door, and walked in, followed by Gifford. Irving sat down, facing John Costello, Gifford took a chair against the wall.

′John—′

′Was that Karen?′

′Yes, it was.′

′She okay?′

′No,′ Irving replied. ′She told several of us to go fuck ourselves, and as far as I′m concerned she′s pretty much convinced herself that she′ll never talk to me again.′

Costello didn′t reply.

′So, John . . . we need to talk about this stuff.′

Costello looked up, eyes wide, expectant almost. ′Stuff?′ he asked, in his voice an undertone of surprised innocence.

′Your books. Your writing. The things in your apartment.′

′My books. My writing. The things in my apartment?′

′I know, John, I know, but you have to agree that there′s something strange about—′

′About me? About who I am? About the way I live my life?′ Costello smiled sardonically. ′I don′t think it would take a lot of work for someone to consider that there′s something strange about you, Detective Irving. You live alone, you eat in the same restaurant every day, you have no friends, no social life. You can′t start a relationship, let alone make it work—′

′This isn′t about me, John—′

′Isn′t it? I think perhaps you should take another look. I think that you is exactly and precisely what this is about. This is who you are, Detective Irving. What you are doing right now, what you have been doing over the last few weeks, seems to be the only thing that defines you—′

′John . . . seriously. I need to understand who I′m dealing with here—′

′What you are dealing with? Why do you think you are dealing with something?′

′The books in your apartment . . . a room full of books. Ionizers or whatever—′

′Dehumidifiers,′ Costello said matter-of-factly. ′They′re there to make sure the room doesn′t get damp.′

′But what does it all mean? What does—′ ′What does it mean? It doesn′t mean anything, Detective. Or maybe it does. Fact of the matter is I don′t care if who I am and what I do means anything to you or not.′

′John . . . goddammit, John, I have to justify my decisions here, and one of them was having you work with us—′

′You don′t have to justify anything any more, Detective. Don′t concern yourself with that. I quit.′

′You what?′

′I just quit,′ Costello said. ′Real simple. No problem at all. You don′t have to explain yourself or justify anything to anyone.′

Out of the corner of his eye Irving caught a flash of movement through the small window in the door.

Gifford evidently saw it too, for he got up and stepped out into the corridor. He returned moments later, tapped Irving on the shoulder, indicated that he was needed outside.

The expression on Bill Farraday′s face said everything. ′The news has it,′ he said under his breath. ′I′ve had Ellmann on the phone ten times already. What the fuck is it with this guy?′

′Who the hell knows,′ Irving said. ′A fucking weird apartment. A lot of material that I′d like to take a close look at, but right now I have no reason to. I can explain breaking into his apartment, but I have nothing to hold him on, nothing to charge him with except suspicion of being fucking nuts—′

′Let him go,′ Farraday said.

Irving looked down at the floor. It had been inevitable.

′Get him out of here,′ Farraday said. ′Tell him to get his door fixed. Tell him to have it billed to us. Get him out of the building, off the payroll . . . Jesus, I knew this was a fucking mistake—′

′He already quit,′ Irving said.

Farraday sneered. ′Oh that′s really rich, isn′t it. God, this has become a fucking circus. I need you to finish with him, Ray, I need him out of here - and I need him muzzled on this. His story in the fucking papers is the last thing in the world I want to deal with right now.′

Irving knew there was nothing on which they could hold Costello, no justification for searching the apartment, no reason to pore over the several hundred journals that were book-shelved and dehumidified and extraordinarily suspicious.

′Six dead, and four of them were kids . . .′ Farraday left the statement incomplete.

Irving returned to the interview room, told Costello that he could go, that there was no reason to hold him. He also asked him to maintain confidentiality regarding what had happened.

John Costello smiled, standing there at the door, the look in his eyes one of unspoken patience.

′Tell me something,′ Irving said.

Costello raised his eyebrows.

′Tell me that I didn′t make a mistake about you. Tell me you′re not involved in this thing.′

And Costello smiled again, but this time there was something that appeared almost superior - not disdainful, not critical or censorious, but knowing - as if Costello knew he was so far beyond the banality of Irving′s thought processes.

′Involved in this thing?′ he said. ′Of course I′m involved, Detective, and you′re the one who got me involved.′

And with that he opened the door and left the room.

Irving looked at Gifford. Gifford looked right back.

Neither of them spoke, because neither of them had anything to say.

B
y five that afternoon, Ray Irving was certain that Anthony Grant and Desmond Roarke had not spoken to one another since the conclusion of their professional relationship some years before. Detective Ken Hudson, pursuing whatever lines he could regarding the whereabouts of Karl Roberts, Grant′s PI, also found time to meet with Gregory Hill. Ostensibly to elicit any further information regarding the Roarke break-in, Hill was brought to the interview room and questioned without his wife. For this he was grateful. She had been through enough. Her affair with Grant was in the past. They had managed to get over it. She had recognized it as a huge mistake, something that she had convinced her husband was a once and once only thing, and he had forgiven her.

′And were there physical confrontations?′ Hudson had asked Hill, a question that had prompted Hill to avert his gaze, to look ashamed, to respond in a whisper.

′I was drinking,′ he told Hudson. ′I said some things . . . did some things . . .′

′Did you physically harm her, Mr Hill?′

′I was a different man back then,′ Hill said. ′I hit her. I cannot tell you how ashamed I am of my behavior. Regardless of what someone might have done, violence is never justified.′

Hudson believed the man to be genuinely contrite. The Hills had weathered the worst that could happen to a marriage, and they had somehow survived. The way the attempted break-in now appeared confirmed that the focus of the investigation was not to be Anthony Grant, nor Greg Hill, nor Desmond Roarke. The subject of their concentration and focus was the man who had called Roarke and pretended to be Grant. The man who had hired Roarke to break into the Hill house, suggesting there was evidence that implicated Hill in the murder of Mia Grant. CSAs at the Hill house had found nothing. Roarke had made no calls to any number registered to Grant. Access to Roarke′s phone records gave them three phone booths, all within a ten-block perimeter of the Fourth, from which calls had been made coincident with the times he believed Grant was calling him. There was nothing probative to tie these men together. Their stories held.

Desmond Roarke would carry through on the attempted B&E. He′d invalidated his parole and would return to complete his sentence. Laura Hill would not be dragged through an interview regarding her infidelity. Evelyn Grant would not be told of her husband′s affair with Laura Hill five years earlier. Grant was a lawyer. He knew how far the police could walk, and where they had to stop. There were lines, and some were not crossed.

Each way Irving and his men turned there were walls, and the walls were wide, and they were high, and there appeared to be no way around them.

At quarter of seven a meeting was held in the incident room. Present were Farraday, Irving, Gifford, Hudson, Jeff Turner, and the assistant CSA from the Allen house.