The Deal (42 page)

I tapped two keys, one white, one black, and listened to each note hang in the room for a moment before dissolving. I walked around the side as my hand lightly grazed the casing. My eyes moved to the impressive antique cigar humidor collection, items that, like the piano, I had never examined up close. Spaced evenly across the dark landscape, maybe a dozen in total, the first thing I noticed was they were all very different from one another in both size and composition. A couple were simply large oak or mahogany boxes. Others had intricate inlaid patterns or hand-carved molding. One had corners adorned with pewter trim, another was accented with bronze. Another still was covered with leather.

I went to open one. It was locked. The fourth key I tried, one made of the same antique pewter as the box’s trim, slid in comfortably and released the lid. I lifted it up. Aside from a musty, stale fist of air there was nothing.

Tick, tick—

I decided to go with the next humidor to my left, one of the large, basic, solid wood boxes. Key number two was the winner. This time, besides the antique air, there was far from nothing.

The silver oak humidor contained letters. Five of them. The edges of the once white envelopes became more yellow in descending order. I reached in and randomly plucked one out. It was addressed to my father in a woman’s handwriting, the same handwriting that had dated the bottom right-hand corner August 20, 1985. I had seen this writing before. The numbers matched the 1974 from the drawing of young Andreu.

I crept over to the window and, still out of sight of the squad car, peered out the front window. The officer was still writing. He checked his watch, reminding me I needed to keep my ass moving. Then he looked up and answered his cell phone.

I raced back over to the piano, replaced the letter I had removed and unlocked all the humidors. Nothing else, letters or otherwise, was in any of them. I pulled out the same letter I had originally removed. The thought of reading it naturally entered my mind. There was no time.

I heard another car coming. It was slowing down.

I darted again to the wall next to the window and peeked at the street. A huge, black SUV was stopping in front of the townhouse. Detective Morante was behind the wheel.

“Oh shit!” I exclaimed turning back toward the living room.

Easy access my ass.

Tick, tick—

React.

I raced to the piano, tucked the five letters into my briefcase, shut the humidors, and quickly returned to the window. Morante and the other officer talked as they headed for the house.

Still going full speed I bolted from the room. I pulled the door to the basement closed behind me, leaving it slightly ajar. I headed down the staircase and positioned myself under the ceiling-high window that, although mostly hidden by shrubbery on the outside, allowed me to look up at the front stoop. I could hear the two men approaching. As they stepped up to the home’s entrance they were still talking. Though muted I could hear their conversation.

“You really think he has something to do with what happened?” asked the uniformed officer.

“Still not sure,” said Morante. “He said he was home Friday night, but when we checked the building’s cameras, he left at one point and didn’t return for hours.”

He knocked on the door and rang the bell. When he didn’t get an answer he turned the knob, which I had left unlocked, and they entered. As quietly as I could, I moved back to the base of the staircase.

“Hello?” Morante called out. “Jonah, you here?”

The two cops, without hesitation, went straight to the stairs leading to the second floor. Since I mentioned coming by for work, I figured they were going for the study. As they neared the end of their ascent, I began my own, moving slowly and staying to the side on each step, where it didn’t creak. Once at the top I stopped, pushed the door open a bit more, and listened again. Their inaudible voices were distant. Knowing it was only a matter of seconds before they picked up their pace, I made my move, escaping through the front door unnoticed. I strode to the corner and hailed a cab.

Chapter 43

I fell into the black, faux-leather seat of one of the new cabs with extra leg room, placed my briefcase on the seat next to me, and slammed the door. My eyes never left the street I had just come down. When I noticed we weren’t moving, I looked forward to the rearview mirror. The cab driver didn’t need to say a word. His expression told me he had questions.

I looked at his prominently placed, plastic-covered ID card on the glass partition.

“Let’s go, Saul,” I said.

Saul Cohen was a wrinkly, leathery little Jewish guy who looked like he’d been driving a cab since they were all hansoms. He was so small I couldn’t help wondering if he could see over the dashboard. Aside from his eyes that I had seen in the reflective glass, all I could see from the backseat when he turned around was his weathered Mets cap.

“Where to?” he shot back, raspy.

I looked back out the window toward the townhouse. They’d be running out any second.

“Let’s just get moving. I’ll tell you in a minute.”

“We staying uptown? Should I—”

I returned my eyes to Saul’s doing my best to stay composed and keep any chance of his concerns from growing. His question, “where to?” was a more insightful inquiry than he knew. I could always tell Morante that when I slipped out of the townhouse the other officer was doing some work in his car and I didn’t want to disturb him. But this, at best, was thin. Morante was quick. I was sure I had just considerably raised his suspicions about my being involved in my father’s death. The fact I was hiding something completely different from what he thought wasn’t the issue. The reality was that he’d probably come looking for me, which meant my apartment and office.

I had one criteria in order to read the letters, privacy, but no idea where to go. I decided to buy some time to get the taxi moving.

“Let’s go through the Park.”

No sooner than I could get the words out, Saul hit the gas. Before I could even exhale my cell phone let out a chime indicating I had a text message. I pulled the message up, figuring it was Morante. It wasn’t.

The message read, “Decided to get a new phone. Same one as you. Didn’t someone once say a picture is worth a thousand words?” There was a photograph attachment to the text message. Krissy had gone out and gotten herself the same camera phone I had. I was afraid to look.

As I readied myself for what I was about to see, the cab made a sharp right turn onto Sixty-sixth Street going west. Saul was trying to make the light. I grabbed for the seat to brace myself, my left hand bearing the brunt of my weight. Once both feet were on the floor again, I returned my eyes to the phone.

With the press of a button a bright, surprisingly high-resolution image filled the screen. The picture was clear. In disbelief I lifted it right to my eyes. It was a forearm. The shot was taken from up above as if snapped with the photographer’s free hand. Freshly carved into it were the initials J.G., then a plus sign with the initials K.L. underneath. This was surrounded by a crude, bloody heart. I now assumed her last name started with an L. Krissy had sliced our initials into her arm like it was a tree trunk on the outskirts of some schoolyard. The initial blood that must have come from the wound had been cleared away, leaving just a few faint surrounding streaks
.

I had dealt with crazy women in the past, but this was different. This wasn’t about me being some catch or some young, well-bred kid who could make people laugh at a party. This was someone’s dangerous obsession. Krissy was out of control. It terrified me.

What Krissy L. didn’t know was that I already had plans for her.

Within seconds of viewing the digital image, the cell rang, this time emitting a jingle associated with an incoming voice call. The caller ID, as usual, showed a blocked incoming number. I took a deep breath.

“Jonah Gray.”

“You fuck! You lying fuck!”

“It isn’t what you think—”

“You don’t mean one fucking thing you say, do you?”

I actually found myself thinking about it.

“You just say what you need for me to buy your bullshit, and then—”

It was scary. She was genuinely angry with me. The strain in her voice, the pain, was unnerving.

“It’s not like that,” I cut her off.

Barreling through Central Park, old, cobblestone walls giving intermittent glimpses of the green pastures behind them, I could feel Saul’s presence a little more than I wanted to. I looked at the rearview mirror. He pulled his curious eyes, and I assume ears, away in a hurry. I slid the Plexiglas divider door shut.

“Like what? What the hell does that mean? It’s not like what?”

“I got caught up in—”

“Bullshit, Jonah. Complete bullshit. It’s been like four days since we’ve spoken.”

It was as if she had completely blocked out our last encounter.

“And I refuse to have you keep blowing me off so you can hide from the truth. Our truth.”

“There was an accident,” I responded, desperate.

A personal tragedy, I hoped, would bring her back to the trusting place I needed her.

“My father had an accident.”

She fell silent. All I could hear on the other end were her deep, quickened breaths.

“Is he all right?” she pushed out.

“No,” I said. “He’s not.”

“What happened?”

“It’s a long story.”

I paused for a second, horrified at the words about to pass through my lips.

“One I’d rather tell you in person.”

I had come to understand how her mind worked. All she wanted was to see me. Give her that, I figured, and I could take anything from her I needed.

“I want to listen, Jonah. I want to be there for you.”

“I know you do. So why don’t we get together tonight. I’ll meet you at One Little West Twelfth in the Meatpacking District at nine. I can bring you up to speed.”

Just as my call ended we stopped at a light on Central Park West that meant the end of our crossing. Saul, aware I couldn’t hear him, threw his blue sweatshirt-covered arms in the air. Looking outside I realized the best place to get lost in New York City was all around me. I reached forward and slid the partition open.

“Make a right, Saul. Drop me off at Eighty-first Street.

I entered the park, warm from the clear sky and strong sun working in concert, and briskly headed north toward one of my most trusted spots. I held my briefcase’s handle in my right hand. It was Monday afternoon so the park was pretty empty. There were scattered runners and people talking and eating on patches of grass and the benches lining the pedestrian paths, but it was nothing more than a skeleton version of the weekends. Within two hundred yards of my entry, I came across one of the area’s many playgrounds. Coming from it was more life it seemed than anywhere else in the park. Children were laughing, playing on swings, and sliding down slides. I thought of Perry. I thought of Max.

I cut across a gentle, rolling field, and couldn’t resist the thought of a running Neo as I watched a guy play Frisbee with his two enthusiastic golden retrievers. I kept walking. At the equivalent of Eighty-third Street I came upon Summit Rock, the highest natural elevation in the whole park, both saddened and disheartened to see a couple of drug addicts passed out on benches. Their numb, glistening faces were red from crisping in the sun. Their clothes were soiled, ragged. One of them, a woman, had sores lining her legs and a black, charred crack pipe in her hand.

Seeing a pay phone, I looked at my wrist for the time. Afraid of talking on my cell, and realizing I had a schedule to stick to, I placed the briefcase down next to me, picked up the receiver, and wedged it between my shoulder and ear. I grabbed some change from my pocket, threw it in, and dialed as I surveyed the area.

“Luckman.”

“It’s me.”

“Hold on.”

I could hear L dismiss someone from his office. Then I heard the door close.

“You okay?”

“I think so. I wanted to see how you were doing on my request.”

“I’m making it happen, Jonah. You just need to be patient. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.”

“You said it would happen quickly, L. You said I’d have them as fast as I needed them.”

“I know, man, and you will. Remember, I’m putting a lot on the line here. I own the company across the street from this guy’s boss. He’s just some fucking illegal dock worker. I need to be really fucking careful. And you need to be patient.”

“I don’t have the time to be patient, L.”

“I waved fifteen grand under his nose, Jonah. Believe me, he gets it that I’m looking to move fast. It won’t be long.”

“When? Give me a ballpark.”

“Tomorrow morning. First thing.”

I headed up the public walkway, a serpentine path of steps carved into the bedrock of the south slope, toward the apex of Summit Rock that sat about a hundred and forty feet in the air. As I climbed, my expensive dress shoes turning on me for treating them like sneakers, beads of sweat began showing on my arms and brow. My shirt began clinging to me. I took off my jacket and slung it over my shoulder. My tongue swiped the salty skin above my lip. Each upward step was accompanied by an image as my hard sole clashed with the harder rock. One was Pavel Derbyshev in the restroom in Baltimore. Another was my father on a gurney. Another was the view of Tommy’s office from his doorway with all of us in it. One step brought a black-and-white photograph of my mother. Then there was Pangaea-Man putting a gun to my head, followed by Robie/Hart and Krissy and Archmont. Panic took over. I was near running, taking two, three steps at a time.

Just feet from the top I heard my cell ringing in my briefcase. I stopped and took it out. It was Lloyd Murdoch’s office.

“Jonah Gray.”

“How’s everything going, Jonah?”

“What do you want?”

“It’s a shame what happened to your father. I wanted to pass along my condolences.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“He was a true businessman. Unlike some people he associated with.”

“You may have fooled the cops, Lloyd, but not me.”