Sometimes at Night

by Ben Sanders

  Nevins said, ‘Did he tell you where he was?’

  ‘Work. He always said work. He wasn’t creative with his excuses.’

  ‘Why. Where do you think he was?’

  Hannah just shook her head. She said, ‘It’s terrible, but I just had this bad feeling for months. That something awful was going to happen. But then you think: well, it’s arrived, why didn’t you do anything?’

  Nevins shook his head, holding her gaze. ‘None of this is your fault.’

  ‘I know. I just mean, so often in life, there’s a feeling that comes before the thing itself. You know what I mean? But how often do you act on it?’

  No one answered.

  The seating configuration was wrong. The table was round, and the three of them should have been positioned with equal circumferential spacing. But they weren’t. The Nevins–Hannah offset was too small. In a coordinate sense, the positioning was isosceles, as opposed to the infinitely more pleasing equilateral. But there was nothing Marshall could do about it. He’d just have to sit there and accept it was going to be on his mind. He drank some coffee.

  Hannah said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what to tell you. He went out Tuesday morning, I think it was, didn’t hear from him at all the last couple days. I mean, other than tonight. And then you showed up.’

  Nevins said, ‘Did he seem stressed or anxious recently?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know … like I said, something wasn’t right, because I never saw him. But he wouldn’t talk to me about it. I remember last week, he finally came in one night – two, three a.m. maybe, and I just said to him, What’s going on? And it was literally like talking to a wall. He just rolled over and I was talking to his back. He reeked of booze, I mean he stank of it. It was like he was sweating alcohol. But I just said something like, Whatever, or, Suit yourself.’ She shook her head. ‘Funny when you look back, it really feels like you’re telling the universe to do its best, you know?’

  Nevins didn’t have a response to that. His pen nib touched the paper a few times, as if marking an ellipsis, noting the pause.

  Hannah jutted her lower jaw, caught a tear with the tip of her tongue, looked at her phone again. ‘Kids, honestly. Always on their phone unless you’re trying to reach them yourself …’ She looked away, as if seeing a thought come together in the middle distance. She said, ‘It’s terrible, but I know he’s done something. This isn’t some kind of freak event that might’ve happened to anyone. He set it in motion somehow. I don’t know how and I’m not …’ She caught another passing tear. ‘I’m not saying he deserved it. I’m not saying that. But something was happening.’

  Nevins said, ‘Tell me again about the man in the mask.’

  Hannah blinked, made wide eyes at the ceiling, clearing her vision. ‘Do you think he’s the man who killed Ray?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. But I need to find out what happened.’

  She shook her head slightly, eyebrows raised. That vacant look people get, as if baffled by the power of hindsight.

  ‘I was in here cleaning up, and I heard this tapping at the window in the front room. Very precise – you know: one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi … Maybe, I don’t know, five or six times. I went to see what it was, looked out through the drapes, there was just this guy standing by the front steps, looking up at me. He was … I already told you he was wearing a mask, but there’s a streetlight right there outside our door, and I could see from the shape of it – the shape of the mask – I could tell he was smiling. It’s such a bizarre thing to see out your window, I kind of stood there for a second looking down at him. I mean, there was nothing unusual about him other than the mask, if that makes sense. He just stood there looking back, and then he waved at me, like this …’

  She raised a hand like taking an oath and curled her fingers a couple of times.

  ‘Almost … it’s strange, but it was almost royal. Completely still, except for his fingers. Anyway, that’s when I called nine-one-one. The operator said to lock myself in the bathroom, but I was worried he’d still be there when Ella got home. She’s over in Williamsburg at a party, did I tell you that? Anyway, I was on my cell phone, so I stayed at the window with the guy still looking at me, but then I thought he could be just a distraction. You know, keep me at the front window while someone broke in through the kitchen. So I came back here to make sure the door was locked, and then by the time I checked the front window again, he’d gone.’

  Nevins said, ‘Think back to when you saw him standing outside. Was he tall, short, fat, thin …?’

  ‘Shortish I guess, medium weight. He was wearing quite a heavy coat, waist length. Gloves on, too. Couldn’t tell his skin color. And he was standing … he was standing almost side-on, with his hip forward, almost like a boxer might. So maybe that’s something … looking for a shortish guy who stands sideways.’

  All three of them smiled, trying to coax something out of that little spark.

  Nevins said, ‘Yeah. That should narrow it down.’

  Hannah said, ‘Honestly, I don’t know what to feel. I mean … I’m devastated. But then, it almost felt like this was where he was heading. He wouldn’t talk to me, he wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. I’d hear him come in, hear the door close, and then the next thing was the stopper coming out of the wine. He was drinking so much he could never seem to remember anything – he couldn’t even keep the days square. I was worried … I literally thought maybe he was getting Alzheimer’s or something, early onset, but I think he was just loaded all the time. Lucky he was into wine and not whiskey, he’d be dead years ago. He’s had diabetes the last five years, type one. Childhood-onset diabetes at forty-three. I guess sometimes it just goes that way. It was hard, because Ella’s actually had it since she was two, so it seemed … well, I don’t know. You never know what’s going to happen. But it just seemed extra-cruel that they both ended up with it. I’d thought maybe they could help each other, but it never seemed that way. They were kind of on independent tracks, really. But the thing was of course, when Ray was diagnosed, he had to retire from the PD, and I think that really knocked him. I think losing his career was a bigger blow than the condition. Some people … they really need a structure and a … well. They need a formal purpose for getting up in the morning, and that was his. He was police. He never came out and said it, but you could tell. Even his car, he drove one of those old Fords – a Crown Vic. He was adamant it had to be a Crown Vic. He never said it, but it was obviously part of the connection. He drove the car, he felt like he was still on the job, still on the inside.’

  Nevins said, ‘Did he ever mention having trouble with anyone?’

  ‘Well, I mean, it was his job, wasn’t it? Some people were easier than others, I guess. I don’t know.’

  ‘But you weren’t aware of anyone threatening him?’

  ‘No, like I say, we just … he wouldn’t talk to me. It was like … well, to be honest, I don’t know what it was like.’ Her mouth trembled and then steadied. ‘He looked like he was in trouble, but he wouldn’t talk about it. He just would not talk about it.’

  ‘You aware of any financial trouble he might’ve had?’

  ‘You mean like loan sharks?’

  ‘Anything like that. Loans, gambling …’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s the same answer to every question, really.’ She shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t talk to me. There’s not a lot I can tell you.’

  ‘So he didn’t mention the type of work he was doing?’

  ‘He wouldn’t ever talk cases. It was the same when he was on the P.D., he wouldn’t ever talk cases. But I guess, in general, last six or eight months, it was office-based stuff, mainly. Fraud investigations, more and more I.T.-related work.’ She laughed. ‘God. He used to be … setting up a T.V., or downloading photos from a camera, it’d be a three- or four-hour saga.’ She stayed in the memory for a moment, smile slowly fading. She said, ‘But I think he actually developed an affinity for it. He looked like he knew what he was doing, anyw
ay.’

  From the front of the house came the sound of a key scraping in the lock. Hannah rose from her seat. ‘Ella, I’m here. Ella.’

  Marshall leaned in his chair and saw the girl step in through the front door. She was maybe nineteen or twenty, a younger version of her mother. Superficially, at least. Same hair and height, maybe five-eight, same facial structure, but Ella still had an adolescent smoothness, features not yet sharpened by age. She wore jeans and an oversize hooded sweater, a fat satchel hanging from her shoulder. Rain had plastered her hair tightly around her face. She resembled someone peering out through a dark thicket.

  Hannah said, ‘I was trying to call you …’

  The girl looked back through the open door to the police cars at the curb, the cops in the hallway busy listening to their collar mikes and studying the floor.

  She said, ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  Neutral, like she was unfazed.

  Hannah hugged her, and the girl’s chin settled on her shoulder.

  Hannah said, ‘Yes, he’s gone. Someone shot him.’ Voice shaking. ‘He was sitting in a restaurant and someone …’ Deep breath. ‘Someone shot him.’

  Ella just stood there, one thumb hooked in the strap of the satchel, face blank and pale, eyes on Marshall now.

  She said, ‘I remember you. You worked with Dad.’

  He smiled. ‘I remember you, too.’ He wanted to tell her he was sorry, but he knew whatever he said would be inadequate. He didn’t trust himself to summon the proper level of condolence, even if it was sincere. Some things you couldn’t wrap a phrase around.

  She shrugged. ‘It was going to happen. Almost like he wanted it.’

  ‘Sweetheart …’

  Hannah pulling back now, holding her at arm’s length.

  ‘It’s true. I’m serious.’ She stepped away. ‘I can’t do this now, honestly. I can’t do this.’ Her voice breaking up.

  ‘Ella …’

  The girl’s feet a leaden trudge on the stairs. Marshall looked at Nevins, saw him scanning back through what he’d written. Or maybe looking at what he hadn’t written: the information between the lines, things that would get in his head and wake him at three a.m. one day. Marshall got up from the table. His coffee was only partially consumed, and he felt that when he parted ways with it, the mug should be either empty, completely full, or half-full. The challenge was in the fact the mug’s horizontal cross-section varied, curving inward at the base, and so the half-capacity mark wasn’t evident by inspection. All he could do was leave it empty, or perhaps top it up with coffee from the flask. But that would trigger the obvious corollary problem of identifying the proper flask volume. Better not to get involved. He rinsed the mug and set it on the counter and went through to where Hannah was standing in the hallway, hands tented across her nose and mouth like a breathing mask. She turned to him, blinked carefully a couple of times.

  He said, ‘I’m more than happy to stay, but I’ll get out of your hair if you like. Whatever you want.’

  She moved her hands to her hips. ‘No, no, you’re fine. Thank you for coming. I appreciate it.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. It’s the least I can do.’

  ‘It’s been …’ She looked at the floor, and then back at him. ‘God. I haven’t seen you in years. Ray said you were undercover, and then we just … It seemed like you disappeared.’

  He smiled. ‘Yeah, I did, sort of. But I’m glad I put my head up again.’

  She nodded, studied him carefully. Concern and maybe even pity in her face, and Marshall wondered what she’d heard that she could spare those emotions for him on a day like today, so cataclysmic for her own life.

  She said, ‘We umm …’

  She was looking upstairs, hands back to her mouth. She combed her hair with her fingers. ‘I think I just need some time with her. But I don’t even know how you talk about this kind of thing. I don’t know what to tell her.’

  Marshall said, ‘Tell her we’re going to find who did it. Maybe that’s a good way to start.’

  As soon as he said it, he knew it was wrong. He couldn’t guarantee anything like that. He shouldn’t be claiming otherwise. But it sounded better than a promise that he’d do his best. Maybe it was what he needed to hear. Hannah just hugged him again, cheek against his chest and rocking slightly, foot-to-foot. He rested his chin on her head, not sure what else to tell her, and when he looked up Nevins was there, looking back.

  ‘Mrs Vialoux, sorry to interrupt. We’re going to get an officer to take you down and make the formal identification. Maybe in about an hour, if that’s OK.’

  Marshall felt her swallow. She stepped away, wiped her eyes with the heel of a hand. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘And ma’am, did your husband have an office in the house? Computer or anything I could take a look at …’

  She told him Ray had a home office in the spare bedroom. She led Nevins upstairs, saying she’d been through it before out of curiosity, never seen anything that worried her, other than credit card bills. She leaned out from the landing and said, ‘Marsh, honestly. You don’t need to stay.’

  ‘I’ll leave my number. Give me a call if you need anything.’

  She nodded, managed to tell him there was a pen and paper down there somewhere, and then she was welling up again. Kindness was different in these situations, he’d found. The share price went way up. He found a pen and a spiral-bound notepad in the side table in the hallway, turned to a clean page and wrote down his name, address, and phone number, centered carefully to ensure equal margins. He used only burner phones, switching to a different number once per month on average. He flipped through the book. Pages of notes that meant nothing. Names and phone numbers and reminders. Plumber Tuesday. Dr Poole Friday. Routine entries, but it was still all private information, and he felt guilty for prying, even if he was in search of murder clues. It felt like a dubious dispensation. He cleared space on the table and left the notebook open to the correct page, and returned the pen to the drawer. It was full of paper detritus he didn’t attempt to review. But there was a fat stack of business cards secured with a bulldog clip. He fanned through them. Plumber, gasfitter, glazier, AC technician, accountant, lawyer. Even a private investigator. JORDAN MORA INVESTIGATIONS. No one Marshall had heard of. Maybe a colleague of Ray’s. A magnifying glass logo, and phone numbers for landline and cell. An address up in Queens. Marshall slipped the card in his pocket with Nevins’ and left the others in the drawer.

  The front door was still open, and the uniformed cops had moved outside. Nothing like silence among strangers to force a move. He stood there a moment, listening to Hannah’s muffled voice from upstairs, and then he took the cordless phone handset off the hallway wall and went back through to the kitchen.

  The REDIAL button brought up the call history in the little backlit window, and there was another button with arrows that let you navigate up and down the list. The system stored the last twenty outgoing calls, apparently. The most frequent number appeared five times. It was almost midnight, but he tried it anyway, dialing the number on his cell.

  The woman who picked up sounded elderly: ‘Yes, hello? Is that you, Hannah?’

  Her mother, Marshall figured.

  ‘I’m very sorry, ma’am. I’ve dialed the wrong number. Apologies for waking you.’

  The woman said goodnight and hung up on him.

  Marshall scrolled through the list again. He could hear one of the cops arguing by radio, telling someone that if the President wanted to vacation on Fifth Avenue, he had to accept they didn’t have the staff to look after him: they couldn’t pull both cars off the Vialoux place.

  The next most frequent number showed up four times. Marshall thumbed it in on his cell.

  This time a man answered: ‘Bagel shop.’

  He remembered what Vialoux had said earlier: Frank Cifaretti the mob man, with his bagel shop down in Brighton Beach. He figured Ray had been calling up, trying to renegotiate his debt payments.

  Ma
rshall said, ‘Is Frank there?’

  ‘He’s out of town.’

  ‘When’s he back?’

  ‘Who are you, pal?’

  Marshall went out into the hallway. He said, ‘Tell him Marshall’s looking for him.’

  He ended the call and pocketed his cell. Then he hung Hannah’s phone up quietly on the wall and went outside to wait.

  He stood on the sidewalk next to what he guessed was Vialoux’s car. The old Crown Vic that Hannah had mentioned. The rain was fine enough it seemed to hang in the air like mist, streetlights haloed and suspended as if by magic in the dark. One of the patrol cars had departed, the final ruling being that only one unit was required for guard duty. He put his collar up against the cold and jammed his hands in his pockets. A block away on his right, the Brooklyn Queens Expressway was stilted above Fourth Avenue like some kind of iron mantis, green and rivet-studded. A minute later, Nevins came down the steps and joined him.

  He said, ‘You need to be careful with your pronouns.’

  Marshall didn’t answer, not wanting to be drawn in by a line the guy was obviously pleased with. Probably been working on it the last few minutes while he said his goodbyes.

  Nevins said, ‘You told her I’m going to find who did it, and then you told her we’re going to find who did it.’