The Missing Piece (30 page)

Foxx ordered take-out shrimp fra diavolo over linguine and fillet of sole with potato croquettes. A couple of the old-timers were at the bar, clerks who had retired from 60 Centre and moved out of Manhattan to City Island because New England was too far away.

“Got a hot one back at your place?” said one of them.

“Just hungry,” said Foxx.

They jawed while he waited, offered him a shot of Jameson, which he took, then accepted a second round, which Foxx stood. Foxx walked the boulevard with the take-out swinging in a white plastic bag. He made sure no one was following him, then turned up toward the back end of the island and home.

Linda sat at the kitchen table. She had commandeered his bathrobe and made herself a cup of tea.

“You have an interesting library,” she said, holding up a Dover edition of Yeats's poetry.

Foxx dealt out two plates and assorted silverware. They ate in lengths of silence punctuated by short bursts of small talk until the wall phone rang and Foxx reached up to take it down.

It was Bernadette with music playing in the background. They exchanged pleasantries, then Foxx handed the phone over to Linda, who reported on her conversation with Hugh, listened to some advice, then handed the phone back to Foxx.

“He's a self-absorbed ass,” said Bernadette.

“I'm trying to eat,” said Foxx. “Artie's take-out.”

“Enjoy. I'm going to be stuck here pretty late.”

“I'm turning in early.”

Foxx cleaned up while Linda browsed his bookcase. He closed the jalousies and locked both the outer door and the inner door, something he never did but thought was prudent under the circumstances. He told Linda what lights to leave on and what lights to turn off, then went to bed.

He fell asleep until a creaking sound woke him from a vague dream. The shades of the back window were up, showing that clouds had rolled in and turned the sky a fuzzy orange. A latch clicked, and his door opened wide enough to show a dark shadow against gray light. The door closed and the latch clicked. Gradually, the image reversed, the shadow now gray against the darker wall.

“You awake?” she whispered.

“I am now.”

“Can't sleep.”

“Bad night or bad food?”

“Night,” she said. “Mind if I stay in here?”

He slid over to make room. She sat with her back to him. Then she lifted her legs and stretched out on top of the covers. Foxx said nothing. He thought back to McQueen's remarks on the morning of that day, and later, his first sight of her when he interrupted her argument with Judge Johnstone. The curly hair, the straight back, the nice legs. He could feel the damp air seeping into the cottage as it always did at night. She'd get cold soon. She would resist at first, hug herself, draw up her legs, pull her hands back into her sleeves. But eventually she would lift the covers and crawl underneath with him.

 

CHAPTER 34

Foxx returned Linda to the brownstone late Sunday afternoon. Though Linda had fled in a panic on Friday night, she remembered to grab a set of keys from the hook inside the front door. Such presence of mind told Foxx that she was more grounded than she was letting on. Inside, they swept the house together, Foxx to make sure the doors were locked and no one was lurking, Linda to see what Hugh might have taken. Not much, she concluded, except for two large suitcases and a lot of warm-weather clothes.

Hugh had not touched the mess in the kitchen. Linda could imagine him stepping around the shattered crystal, the puddle of water, and the runny cheese while sipping coffee and talking to his new girlfriend on the phone. He might even have snapped a picture and sent it with a cover email, saying, “See? See what she did?”

But now the puddles had evaporated and the cheese stank. Bernadette arrived, and the three began to clean up. As they unstuck the last remnants of cheese and swept up the last shards of crystal, the phone rang. Linda answered, and a grim expression immediately crossed her face. Foxx and Bernadette locked eyes briefly, each reading the other's mind that the caller was Hugh.

“Yes…” Linda said, then “… yes … yes…”

She went silent, looking down and rubbing her thumbnail.

“That's ridiculous,” she eventually said. “You're the administrative judge. You run the courthouse. This is your decision.”

Bernadette exhaled, relieved that the caller was not Hugh, but Foxx listened hard. He could hear Judge Belcher's tiny voice leaking around Linda's ear. No words, just cadence. She was selling something.

“Fine,” said Linda. “No, I'm not okay with this, but what do you want me to say? Okay. Tomorrow. Good night.”

She killed the connection and slammed the phone onto its cradle.

“Judge Belcher,” she said. “Called to inform me that those protestors plan to march into my courtroom tomorrow.”

“You're kidding,” said Bernadette. “Why?”

“Well, apparently this rabble rouser Hannigan who put the whole thing together has been making speeches about there being two court systems, one for the rich and one for the poor. The press picked up on this, not the tabloid press, but the
New York Times
and the
Wall Street Journal
, and now this Hannigan wants to bring these two court systems together in my courtroom because I'm going forward with the Roman silver trial while I delay my decision in the homeless stipend case.”

“I'm sorry,” said Bernadette. “I should have gotten it done.”

“It's not you,” said Linda. “They still would be outside protesting even if I issued a decision last week.”

“Is there a plan?” said Foxx.

“Oh yeah. Sure. Extra court officers. You'll have a lot of company tomorrow.”

*   *   *

Andreas sat at Matyas's bedside and waited another eternity for his brother to draw his next breath. His cell phone rang. He took it out of his pocket, saw that it was Luis calling, and answered. There was no reason to remove himself from Matyas anymore.

“Tomorrow,” said Luis. “Most of the morning and into the afternoon.”

“Thank you. I will talk to Ivan.”

“Good luck. I've been trying to serve him with a subpoena. He must be hiding.”

“I will talk to him,” said Andreas.

He ended the call and turned back to his brother. Matyas's breathing caught, then resumed as someone knocked on the apartment door.

The nurse did not look like a nurse, at least not to Andreas's expectations. She wore a leather jacket, jeans, and boots. Her hair was long and teased, thick as a handful of straw.

“Sorry,” she said, shedding her jacket. “One of my other patients … I needed to wait around. Where is he?”

Andreas pointed down the hallway to the wedge of light spilling out from the bedroom. He watched from the doorway as she examined Matyas.

“His breaths,” he said. “They stop for long time.”

The nurse nodded, slid the bell of her stethoscope to another part of Matyas's chest. His ribs were visible beneath his skin. The nurse read his blood pressure and took his pulse. Andreas noticed that she did not smile or frown but just went about her business. When she was done, she took Andreas into the hallway.

“He is now actively dying,” she said. “His blood pressure is low. His pulse is slow. His breathing is shallow. Sometimes it stops, like it hits a snag.”

“What means ‘a snag'?” said Andreas.

“It gets caught. Stuck.” She hooked one hand around the other. “But then it starts again.”

“How long?”

“Could be days, a week. I can't predict.” She rooted around in her backpack and pulled out a plastic bag holding thin syringes filled with yellow liquid. “This is morphine. Keep it in the refrigerator. It helps with the pain.”

“He has no pain,” said Andreas.

“It also helps him to breathe. His breaths won't snag. But”—she paused—“this is the final descent. Once you start with this, he is not coming back. Has he been talking to you?”

“Some yesterday. A little today.”

“That usually ends when you start with this. Not always, but usually. He may be able to hear you. But if you want to have a back and forth, better have it before you start with this.”

She showed Andreas how to administer the morphine, told him to keep the empty syringes, warned that when it was over all twenty-four needed to be accounted for. She wished him luck and she wished him well, told him she understood, though he doubted that she did. She gave him a magnetized card with the hospice phone number. She told him to call if anything changed, otherwise she would return in two days.

Andreas let her out the door, then returned to the bedside chair. Matyas's eyelids fluttered, his breathing sounded smooth.

“My brother,” said Andreas. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” said Matyas. His eyelids opened fully for a moment, then closed. His breath hit another snag.

Andreas could not waste any more time. He told his brother exactly what he planned to do. He told him that it was all they were left with. Matyas's breath snagged again, and this time Andreas shook him.

“You understand?” he said.

Matyas made a tiny sound.

“I have your blessing?”

Again, a tiny sound.

Andreas felt his face tighten. He blinked against the tears that filled his eyes. He pushed the first syringe between his brother's lips. He waited a full minute, listening as Matyas breathed smoothly. Then he pushed a second syringe.

Andreas pushed eight in all, deciding without any reason that eight would be enough. He dropped the empties back into the plastic bag and wedged the bag in the crook of Matyas's elbow.

After his brother's last breath, Andreas picked up his duffel bag and left the apartment. He did not lock the door behind him.

 

CHAPTER 35

The nebulous confidence McQueen had felt exiting the subbasement on Friday afternoon suddenly coalesced into words as he shaved his neck on Monday morning. Ivan had possession of the urn, which meant that Ivan had been involved in the heist. And if Ivan was involved in the heist, why shouldn't he go to the police, the IG, even the captain with his suspicions? Because he really didn't know; he only felt. And though sometimes what you felt was more true than what you knew, he wasn't one hundred percent convinced what he felt was true. Besides, Ivan having the piece didn't mean he was directly involved in the heist. The security tapes showed that the two gunmen, neither of whom resembled Ivan, had fled the courthouse and left the piece behind. Maybe Ivan was holding it for them, or maybe they were gone forever and Ivan had stumbled upon it. The police had investigated, the IG had investigated, everyone in the building had been treated like suspects. If the police and the IG both had passed over Ivan, why shouldn't he?

Because he felt it.

And though McQueen's feelings were not proof beyond a reasonable doubt, they were strong enough that the razor blade slipped and a line of blood oozed pink beneath a thin layer of shave cream. McQueen never cut himself shaving. The cut only proved his theory to be correct. He knew exactly where he would find the missing piece.

*   *   *

Ivan was in his supply closet when the call came.

“I'm in the park,” said Andreas.

Ivan immediately took the A stairwell all the way down to the basement and headed toward the back door. Unlike the front entrance, which was well known from TV and movies, the back entrance was used mainly by deliverymen, the handicapped, and employees returning from lunch in Chinatown. The security post was a backwater, consisting of a single magnetometer and three court officers. Going out the back was a longer route to the park, but Ivan worried that Luis might be waiting out front with a subpoena in his pocket. As he passed the magnetometer, a poster board showing the head shots of two men caught his eye. The shots had the grainy look of security camera images, but the resolution was clear enough that Ivan recognized Andreas and Matyas. Hand-lettered at the top was a single word:
WANTED
.

Outside, Ivan turned up his collar and crossed Worth Street to give the courthouse the widest possible berth. He reached the corner of Centre Street and spotted Andreas pacing behind a bench with a duffel bag hanging from his shoulder.

“What took you so long?” said Andreas. He dropped the duffel bag at Ivan's feet.

“What's this?”

“My tools. I have a small piece of business to attend to,” said Andreas. “It's none of yours.”

“You won't be able to get into the courthouse,” said Ivan.

“Why not?”

“There are pictures of you at every entrance.”

“What pictures?”

“You and Matyas. They are from security cameras three years ago.”

“I am much more handsome now,” said Andreas.

Three years ago, Andreas had long, unruly black hair shot through with strands of gray. Now it was cut so short that the scars above his hairline showed like craters on the moon. Ivan had heard of boxers who led with their chins. Andreas led with his forehead.

“You take this inside and don't worry about me.”

“What about the urn?” said Ivan.

“The man you need to talk to is Robert Pinter.”

“Why do I need to talk to him? I thought Matyas would handle everything.”

“Matyas is dead,” said Andreas. “The piece is yours.”

“What about you?”

“You, me. What does it matter in the end?”

“But he's a lawyer.”

“He's not just a lawyer. He has the connections to broker a deal with anyone, no matter who wins the trial. For a fee.”

“But he wants me to testify about the letter your mother wrote.”

“Oh.” Andreas looked into the distance, thinking. “So testify. Maybe then Hungary will win. That will make your conversation with Pinter more pleasant.”