Replay

by Marc Levy

The doorbell rang several times. Andrew jumped out of bed, slipped on a shirt and crossed the living room to the front door.

  “So how was Buenos Aires?” Simon asked.

  “Keep your voice down. Valerie’s still asleep.”

  “She’s had you to herself all weekend. I didn’t even get a phone call.”

  “We hadn’t seen each other for ten days, so you do understand we . . . ”

  “Okay, okay—no need to give me the details. Get some pants on. I’m taking you out to breakfast.”

  “And hello to you too.”

  Andrew got dressed quickly. He wrote a little note to Valerie and stuck it on the fridge door, then joined Simon outside the front of the building.

  “You could’ve called me yesterday, you know. So how was the trip?”

  “Intense.”

  They walked into the café on the street corner and sat down at Simon’s favorite table.

  “Did everything go according to plan out there?”

  “For my article, yes. But as for the other thing, we can forget the Argentina lead.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Ortiz can’t possibly be aware that I’m going to publish his photo. I’ll explain everything another time, but we need to look elsewhere, Simon.”

  “That only leaves Mrs. Capetta, your colleague Olson, and . . . ”

  “Valerie?”

  “You said it, not me. There is actually another person to add to the list. While you were frolicking around in South America, I had several phone conversations with your inspector friend.”

  “What about?”

  “You’re not going to believe this: as crazy as it sounds, Olson may be right about that serial killer.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I try my best not to be . . . But the NYPD is starting to take it seriously. Same weapon and approach, and theft wasn’t the motive for the attack on the jeweler we visited in Lenox Hill Hospital.”

  “That’s not what the guy told us.”

  “He was trying to con his insurance company. He must have woken up in the hospital and hit on the idea of saying he’d been on his way to see a customer. Actually, he was just walking home from work through the park. An assessor from the insurance company saw through him before you could say ‘fraud.’ There was no such customer, and on the claim form the idiot listed two supposedly stolen necklaces that he’d already claimed in a previous burglary. The attack on him was just a random thing.”

  “I find it hard to believe Olson could’ve stumbled on such a big story.”

  “Listen, just so we’re clear about this: are you absolutely sure you’re not threatened by Olson? Professionally, I mean?”

  Andrew looked away.

  “Yeah, sure. Completely sure.”

  “Okay, back to business. The police are asking questions. And we can hardly go and tell them that a fourth victim may be added to the serial killer’s list in early July.”

  “If it really is a madman who killed me,” Andrew said pensively, “we’re done for.”

  “You always need to make a big deal out of things.”

  “By ‘things,’ do you mean my death? So sorry for making a big deal out of it. You’re right—what was I thinking?”

  “That’s not what I meant. And anyway, there’s nothing to prove your story’s linked to that case. We’ve still got four weeks to go.”

  “We may have.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In Argentina, nothing happened exactly as it did the first time round.”

  “You mean you experienced new things?”

  “The order of events was different. And, yes, some things were new.”

  “Maybe you’d just forgotten them?”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “What are you hiding from me?”

  “I had sex with the bartender who helped me track down Ortiz. That didn’t happen before.”

  “I knew I should have come along!” Simon exclaimed, thumping his fist on the table.

  “To stop me from doing stupid things?”

  “No, you do what you like. Then again, if I’d been there, I’m the one who’d have slept with her. You’re not going to tell me you’re feeling guilty, are you?”

  “Of course I feel guilty.”

  “You really are incredible, Andrew. You’re convinced someone’s going to murder you in a month, and you’re feeling guilty about a minor tryst? What’s done is done. Just don’t say anything to Valerie, and focus on the coming days, okay? Let’s change the subject,” Simon quickly added, looking out of the window.

  Valerie walked into the café.

  “I knew I’d find you in here,” she said. “The look on your faces! Have you had an argument?”

  Simon stood up and kissed Valerie.

  “We never argue. I’ll leave you two lovebirds on your own—a customer’s waiting for me. Andrew, come and see me at the garage if you can, so we can finish our discussion.”

  Valerie waited until Simon had left, then sat down in his place.

  “Sometimes I get the impression he’s jealous of me,” she said, amused.

  “You might be right. Simon is a bit possessive.”

  “What were you talking about? There was tension, don’t deny it.”

  “About the bachelor party he wants to organize for me.”

  “I fear the worst!”

  “Me too. I told him so, and he took it badly,” Andrew replied.

  First lie to Valerie since I’ve been back, he reflected.

  * * *

  Andrew went straight to his editor’s office when he got to work. Olivia Stern hung up her phone and asked him to sit down. Andrew told her about his trip, the circumstances in which he’d assembled the facts, and the deal he’d had to strike with Ortiz.

  “You want us to publish it without mentioning his assumed name? You’re asking a lot of me, Andrew. Your article will lose credibility. You’ll defeat the whole purpose of it.”

  “I thought the idea was to tell the life story of an ordinary man who became an accessory to atrocities. What purpose are you talking about?”

  “Denouncing a war criminal! If we’re not doing that, I don’t see how we can put it on the front page.”

  “Were you really planning to make it the lead article?” Andrew asked.

  “I was hoping to, but you’re going to have to choose between personal glory and keeping your word. Only you can make that decision.”

  “There are other ways of denouncing him,” he said, getting an envelope out of his pocket and placing it on the desk.

  Olivia opened it. The expression on her face changed when she saw the photos of Major Ortiz that Marisa had taken.

  “He looks older than I pictured him,” she murmured.

  “He looked even worse in his hospital bed,” Andrew replied.

  “You’re a funny guy, Andrew.”

  “I know—I’ve already been told that this morning. So, do you have what you need now?”

  “Write up your article. It’s your top priority. I’m giving you three weeks. If your text is up to par, I’ll ask the editorial board for a lead paragraph on the front page and a double-page spread inside.”

  Andrew asked to have the photos back, but Olivia put them away in her drawer, promising she’d return them to him as soon as they’d been scanned.

  Andrew left her office and went straight to see Freddy.

  “Back already, Stilman?”

  “Looks like it, Olson.”

  “You look awful. Was Brazil that bad?”

  “Argentina, Freddy.”

  “Oh, yeah. South America is all the same—let’s not argue.”

  “What about you? Everything going well at work?”

  “Couldn�
�t be better,” Freddy answered. “But don’t expect me to say anything more than that.”

  “I’ve got a cop friend. He’s retired, but he can still pull strings. You only need to ask.”

  Freddy looked at Andrew distrustfully.

  “What are you plotting, Stilman?”

  “Nothing, Freddy. I’m not plotting anything. I’m tired of our petty squabbling. If you really are on the trail of a serial killer and I can give you a hand, then I’ll be happy to—that’s all.”

  “Why would you help me?”

  “To stop him from committing another crime. Does that seem like a good enough reason to you?”

  “You really make me laugh, Stilman. You’ve sensed I’m on to something big. Do you want co-author credits while you’re at it?”

  “No, that hadn’t crossed my mind. But now that you mention it, you’ve given me an idea. Instead of turning our backs on each other, what if we were to publish a report together one day? I know someone who’d be thrilled.”

  “Oh yeah? Who?”

  “My most loyal reader, Spooky Kid! I can just imagine how happy that’d make him. We could even dedicate it to him.”

  Andrew walked back to his desk, leaving Freddy, whose cheeks had flushed red, to reflect on his proposal.

  A text message from Valerie reminded him to drop by the tailor’s to get his wedding suit altered. He turned on his computer and began working.

  * * *

  Andrew spent the whole week on his article. He’d started having nightmares again since he’d returned from Buenos Aires. He dreamt the same scenario each time: he was running along the Hudson River footpath with Freddy on his heels. Freddy always caught up with him and stabbed him under Valerie’s amused, conspiratorial gaze. Sometimes, just before he died, he’d recognize Inspector Pilguez, Marisa, Alberto, Luisa, even Simon among the group of joggers. Each time, Andrew woke up suffocating, frozen to the bone and dripping in sweat, with the excruciating lower back pain that now never completely went away.

  Wednesday, Andrew left his office a little earlier than usual; he’d promised Valerie he’d be on time for dinner with their maid of honor and best man.

  On Thursday, the air-conditioning in Andrew’s apartment gave up the ghost, and Valerie, who was woken each night by Andrew’s cries, decided they’d move then and there into her East Village apartment.

  Andrew felt increasingly exhausted. His back pains got so bad he sometimes had to lie down on the floor by his desk, much to the amusement of Freddy on his trips to and from the bathroom.

  When Andrew left for work on Friday, he swore to Valerie he wouldn’t let Simon take him to a strip club. In fact, Simon took him to the last place he’d expected.

  * * *

  Novecento was jam-packed. Simon elbowed them to the bar. Andrew ordered a Fernet with Coke.

  “What’s that?”

  “You won’t like it. Don’t bother trying it.”

  Simon grabbed the glass, took a swig, made a face and ordered a glass of red wine instead.

  “Why did you bring me here?” Andrew asked.

  “Hey, I didn’t force you to come. If I recall your story correctly, tonight’s the night you fell head over heels, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t find that at all funny, Simon.”

  “Just as well. I wasn’t trying to be funny. What time did the fateful encounter that screwed up your marriage take place?”

  “You don’t like Valerie, Simon, any more than you like that we’ve decided to get married. You’ve brought me here so I make the same mistakes again. Is that the best you could come up with to ‘screw up’ my marriage, as you put it?”

  “You must really be at the end of your rope if you’re getting so aggressive. You’ve got it all wrong—I brought you here to help you see your fantasy for what it really is. For your information, I like Valerie, and I like the thought that you’ll be happy together even more!”

  Simon spotted a Bond girl lookalike with legs up to her armpits walking across the room. He stood up and wandered off without a word, leaving Andrew alone at the bar.

  A woman sat down on the bar stool next to Andrew and flashed him a smile as he ordered a second Fernet and Coke.

  “It’s quite unusual for an American to like that drink,” she said, staring him in the eye.

  Andrew stared back at her. The sensuality she exuded took his breath away. She had a startlingly naughty glint in her eye. Her long, black hair fell elegantly down the back of her neck. He could hardly tear his eyes away from the sheer beauty of her face.

  “It’s the only unusual thing about me,” he said, standing up.

  Outside Novecento, Andrew inhaled the night air deeply. He took out his phone and called Simon.

  “I’m outside. You do what you want. I’m going home.”

  “Wait for me; I’m coming,” Simon replied.

  * * *

  “Why the long face?” Simon said as he joined Andrew out on the sidewalk.

  “I just want to go home.”

  “Don’t tell me you fell in love at first sight again.”

  “No, I won’t. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Name me one single thing I haven’t understood about you in the past ten years.”

  Andrew thrust his hands into his pockets and started walking up West Broadway. Simon followed close on his heels.

  “I felt the same as I did the first time around.”

  “So why didn’t you stay?”

  “Because I’ve caused enough harm as it is.”

  “I’m sure you won’t even remember what she looks like in the morning.”

  “That’s what you thought last time, but events proved you wrong. There’ll be no more lies—I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll probably think of her sometimes, sure, but I’ve made my choice. True love is the love you have, not dream of. I hope you find it one day, Simon.”

  * * *

  When Andrew walked into his apartment, he found Valerie doing leg lifts in the middle of the living room dressed only in her bra and underwear.

  “Aren’t you asleep?” he asked as he took off his jacket.

  “Yes, of course I am—with my feet in the air and my hands under my butt. It’s early. Did Simon fall crazy in love with some stripper and desert you? I can add a setting at the wedding table if things get serious between them.”

  “No, Simon didn’t meet anyone,” Andrew replied, lying down next to Valerie. He lifted his legs and began copying her exercises in time with her.

  “Was the evening a washout?”

  “My stag night was great,” Andrew answered. “Much better than I’d thought it’d be.”

  22.

  The next day, Andrew dropped by Mr. Zanetti’s for his wedding suit fitting. The tailor asked him to step up onto a low box. He surveyed Andrew and lifted the right jacket shoulder.

  “It’s not your fault, Mr. Zanetti; I’ve got one arm longer than the other.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” the tailor replied, pinning the fabric.

  “I know you wouldn’t want anyone to accuse you of doing a bad alteration, but I’ve got an important article to finish.”

  “And you’re in a hurry. Is that it?”

  “A bit, yes.”

  “So, did you go back there?” Mr. Zanetti asked, not taking his eyes off his work.

  “Where?” Andrew replied.

  “That bar, of course. That’s where your troubles started, isn’t it?”

  “How do you know about that?” Andrew exclaimed, stunned.

  Zanetti gave him a broad smile.

  “Do you think you’re the only person to have been treated to a second chance? You’re very self-centered, my dear Mr. Stilman. And naïve.”

  “So you too . . . ”

  “That stranger in the bar—have you seen her
again?” Zanetti interrupted. “Of course you’ve seen her. You look even more awful than last time. But I suppose if we’re hemming your pants, that means you’ve decided to get married. Funny—I’d have guessed the opposite.”

  “Why . . . Why did it happen to you?” Andrew quizzed, his voice trembling.

  “The only question that should concern you, Mr. Stilman, is why did it happen to you. If you don’t make it more of a concern, you’re going to die soon. Do you really think you’ll have a third chance? That’d be taking it a bit far, don’t you agree? Stop trembling or I’ll end up pricking you.”

  Zanetti stepped back and examined Andrew’s suit from top to bottom.

  “It’s not quite right yet, but it’s better than it was. A quick tuck below the shoulder and it should be perfect. I love perfection, and old habits die hard at my age. If I told you my age, you’d be amazed,” Zanetti added, bursting out laughing.

  Andrew went to step down from the box, but Zanetti held him by the arm with surprising strength.

  “And where do you think you’re going in this outfit? So, you chose your teenage love? Wise decision. Take it from someone who knows. I’ve been married four times, and it’s wrecked me. But you probably won’t have time to worry about that if you still haven’t found your murderer. I don’t mean to ramble on, but it’s something you really need to think about.”

  Zanetti walked behind Andrew and gently pulled at the bottom of his jacket.

  “You really are oddly proportioned. Stand up straight, please. It’s difficult enough as it is. Where was I? Oh yes, talking about your killer. Do you have any idea who it is?” Zanetti asked, bringing his face up close to the back of Andrew’s neck. “Is it your future wife? Your colleague? That mysterious serial killer? That mother whose adopted daughter was taken away because of you? Your editor?”

  Andrew suddenly felt an intense tearing in his back. The pain took his breath away.

  “Or me?” Zanetti sniggered.

  Andrew looked at himself in the mirror opposite. His face was frighteningly pale. He saw Zanetti behind him with a long, blood-spattered needle in his hand. Andrew’s legs gave way and he fell to his knees on the box. A bloodstain spread across his shirtfront. As he collapsed face-first onto the ground, Mr. Zanetti’s insane laughter echoed around the room.