Sometimes at Night

by Ben Sanders

  Nothing.

  He said, ‘If you want to talk sometime, or if you need anything, you’re welcome to give me a call. Your mother has my number.’

  She removed the syringe from the base of the vial, touched the plunger to bring a pearl of fluid to the tip of the needle.

  Still not looking at him.

  She said, ‘Well, that makes me feel a million times better. I’ll keep that in mind.’

  From behind him: ‘Ella, that’s so rude. Apologize, please.’

  Marshall stepped out and headed for the front door. ‘No, don’t worry. Forget it.’

  ‘Ella, for God’s sake. He’s trying to help.’

  Marshall said, ‘Hannah, honestly, it’s fine. I was just on the way out …’

  ‘Her attitude, I’m serious. Last thing I need …’

  She came past him raking her hands through her hair, biting her lip, appearing in every sense to be right at the limit. She opened the front door and stood outside on the top step. Marshall gave it a moment before he joined her. He scanned the street. The scene was basically unchanged. A few cars had been replaced, but they were all clear-windowed and vacant.

  She said quietly. ‘They burned his office.’

  ‘What? When?’

  She shook her head, eyes shut. ‘Last night. That was Nevins on the phone. Someone burned his office. Ray’s office. They poured gasoline over everything and burned it. Even the file cabinets. He said they opened the cabinets and poured gasoline on his files. There’s nothing left. He said it’s … they burned everything.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘He said around half-past ten. They must have …’ She bit her lip, looked at the sky. ‘They must’ve shot him and then gone to his office. It’s just up in Park Slope. It’s a street-front unit. He said they just broke the glass and went in.’ She shook her head. ‘All he had, it was just a desk and a computer and some papers. It’s like … was it not enough that he’s dead? Have to destroy his office, too …’

  She raked her hands through her hair again, face distorting with the strain. She whispered, ‘Why would they do that?’

  He had a theory, something along the lines of what he’d told Nevins last night, that Vialoux had more problems than just a gambling debt.

  He said, ‘Battery life on those trackers probably isn’t long. Maybe a week, something like that.’

  Hannah said, ‘Five days on that model, on average. I googled it. Depends how much the car’s moving. I think when it’s stationary they go dormant, essentially.’

  ‘So if it still had power when you found it, it must have been placed recently, maybe only a few days ago.’

  ‘But it was just in the glove compartment.’

  ‘Right. So you need to think carefully about where the cars have been during the past week, and we might be able to work out who had access to them.’

  She didn’t answer.

  Marshall said, ‘Two options. The device was either planted by someone who broke in, or someone who was a passenger.’

  ‘A passenger? What, you think we know them?’

  ‘Ray definitely did. He knew who put the contract out, anyway. So we need to know who he’s given rides to.’

  ‘Well, I’ve no idea. He used my car all the time.’

  ‘We can still try to narrow it down. Depending what days he used your car.’

  She said, ‘Is it a crime, giving it to you? The tracker?’

  He thought about that. At the very least, he was in a legal gray area. He said, ‘The only thing I’m worried about is who shot Ray. If that’s your position, too, I think we’re good to go. I’ll hold on to it for a day, talk to some people. If I don’t get anywhere, I’ll give everything to Nevins.’

  This far in, he was pretty sure that was the truth. That was his honest intention right now, anyway.

  He said, ‘Don’t go out today. Keep the doors locked. If anything looks off, call the police.’

  ‘You think they’re still watching?’

  Marshall didn’t answer that. He said, ‘We’ll find out what’s going on.’

  He’d told her that a few times now, maybe not in those words, and the look she gave him as she stepped inside seemed to reinforce the fact. Like getting answers needed to be a case of when and not if. He waited for the sound of the bolt sliding home, and then he turned and walked away.

  SEVEN

  He was tempted to head up to Park Slope and look at Vialoux’s office, except it was more than likely still an active crime scene. And that meant it was more than likely he wouldn’t be able to take a quiet tour. Better to do something away from scrutiny.

  He’d covered the western leg of the block on the walk in – Fourth Avenue to the Vialoux house – so Marshall crossed the street and turned left, eastbound. The curb space had opened up since he arrived. Every third or fourth parking spot was available. He checked cars as he walked, looking for signs of prolonged occupation, a red-eye surveillance shift. He was thinking of the photos Vialoux received, the photos of Ella and Hannah: most likely taken from a moving vehicle, but potentially shot from a static position. Nothing obvious caught his eye. No backseat mounds of fast-food containers. No gallon bottles of urine.

  He paused for a moment and scanned houses. They were all basically homogenous. The front courtyards were the only real source of variance. A few of them held a kid’s bicycle, or a miniature swing set. A guy riding a mobility scooter came past, a Kurdish flag flying from a pole on the rear tray. A minute later, a woman with a Labrador went by on the opposite sidewalk. The dog had a plastic bag of shit tied to its collar, but seemed happy enough with the arrangement.

  Marshall resumed walking, noticed a guy in a window across the street, watching him. He had a beard, and a T-shirt printed with #DAD. A small pink bicycle with silver tassels on the handlebars was chained to his front fence. Marshall threw him a wave, more out of risk-mitigation than friendliness, not wanting his photo being sent to Crime Stoppers.

  He made it to the end of the block without seeing anything that made his heart skip a beat. An old timer in a newsboy cap was having a smoke on his front steps. He took his cigarette from his mouth and raised it an inch in greeting and returned it to his mouth. Marshall dipped his chin by a corresponding increment and turned around and headed back west. The guy with the #DAD shirt hadn’t moved. Still there at his window, still looking at him.

  Marshall paused for a second, decided it might be best to square this up before it turned into a problem. He gave the guy a big smile, all the wattage he could muster in the cold and under the circumstances, and then he crossed the street, and walked up to his front door. The guy had it open before he got there, just a three-inch gap. He looked out at Marshall above the curve of the security chain.

  ‘Hey there. Can I help you?’

  Marshall said, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to cause any concern. You may have seen some police cars on the street last night?’

  ‘Oh, you’re with the police?’ Thawing out already.

  ‘Ex-police, actually. I’m a friend of one of the residents.’ He offered Nevins’ card through the gap. ‘Feel free to call Floyd. I didn’t mean to cause any alarm.’

  That seemed to hit all the right notes. The guy slid the chain off and opened the door. ‘Oh, no, no, no. That’s fine. I’m Bruce Linney, by the way.’

  ‘Marshall Grade.’

  ‘Sure, hi. Yeah, I just wondered what you were doing. Come in. Was it Hannah’s place? I saw something happening.’

  ‘Yeah. She had a guy outside her front window last night.’

  ‘Oh, God. Doing what?’

  He wasn’t sure how to euphemize it, but a kid’s voice from the front room saved him: ‘Daddydaddydaddy!’

  The guy’s brow knitted for a second, pained tolerance. ‘Here, sorry, come in.’

  Marshall followed him into the living room off the entry hall. He saw a two-year-old in a high chair, eating toast. Peanut butter was smeared amply on all surfaces within the kid’s
reach. A TV was showing a discussion panel on ESPN, and there were approximately one thousand pieces of Lego on the floor. By the window, a little girl maybe eight years old was peeping out over the sill into the courtyard. In the kitchen, a boy of maybe ten was sitting at a table, a workbook open before him, expression vacant and aimed at the TV in the living room.

  Bruce Linney tore a wet wipe from a pack on a chair arm and started attending to peanut butter. ‘Oh, dude. This is a situation. Baxter, I want to see you crushing that homework, not watching the TV. OK?’

  Marshall navigated through Legos to the window. The little girl didn’t move. Marshall said, ‘These cars parked out here, are there any you don’t recognize? Or any that might’ve showed up in the last week, and haven’t moved?’

  ‘Uh …’ He was still in clean-up mode. ‘Well, I mean, this is New York. Cars everywhere, so I couldn’t really say. What happened, anyway?’

  Marshall said, ‘Just a prowler.’

  ‘And sorry, you’re a friend of Hannah’s, is that right?’

  ‘Yeah. I worked NYPD with her husband.’

  The little girl said, ‘The cars are all the same.’

  She tipped her head back to see Marshall standing behind her. He liked how little kids could do that: strike an unusual pose but do it poker-faced and earnest.

  Marshall said, ‘That’s good to know. What about people? Have you seen anyone you don’t recognize?’

  ‘Just you.’

  Bruce Linney said, ‘Sweetheart, come away from the window and get ready, please.’

  ‘But I’m watching my bike.’

  ‘The bike is fine. The bike is chained to the fence. No one is going to take the bike.’

  Marshall said, ‘Yeah. It looks pretty safe to me.’

  The girl put her chin on the sill, stared at the bicycle. ‘You should check the Facebook page.’

  Marshall said, ‘Oh yeah? What’s the Facebook page?’

  The kid at the table obviously thought this was all pretty interesting. He said, ‘There’s like a Facebook page and people post stuff about if there’s something weird. Like, on the block.’

  ‘Dad, show him the Facebook page.’

  ‘Yeah, Dad, show him the Facebook page.’

  ‘Guys, guys, guys. Everyone please be task-focused.’

  Marshall waited.

  The girl tipped her head back again to see him, and then resumed her bike-watch. The kid in the kitchen watched ESPN. Bruce Linney gave up on the peanut butter and took a smartphone from his pocket.

  He said, ‘All right,’ and then sighed, like this was one of those days where he’d need to tackle one thing at a time. ‘Facebook page.’

  He moved his finger on the screen, scrolling. ‘Man, makes you realize people are nosey. A lot of stuff on here … uh. Couple of people noticed a guy going door to door. Said he was realtor, apparently.’

  The girl said, ‘Dad, that was like a month ago. You have to swipe down so it loads the new stuff.’

  ‘Sweetheart, you can just speak nicely, please.’

  ‘Well, you do.’

  Marshall waited.

  Bruce Linney scrolled on, in a daughter-approved manner. He said, ‘The only other mention … someone called … someone called Sandra, I’m not sure where she is—’

  The girl said, ‘She’s that place,’ and pointed: a place across the street, five doors east.

  ‘Oh, right. Anyway, Sandra says … Man, there’s so much baking group stuff here. Honestly.’

  Marshall waited.

  Bruce Linney said, ‘Sandra posted saying she saw a guy coming and going from Lydia’s – shortish guy, dark hair, blue coveralls. But then actually … someone else on the thread, Mrs Lopez—’

  ‘She’s nice!’

  ‘Yeah, she’s nice.’

  ‘Guys, excuse me. Please don’t cross-dialog.’

  Bruce Linney did some more finger-scrolling. He said, ‘There’s a post here from Mrs Lopez saying that she spoke to the guy, and he told her they’re Lydia’s nephews.’ He looked up from the phone. ‘Is that helpful? What happened anyway? Is everyone safe?’

  Marshall didn’t answer, seeing in his mind the figure with the gun outside the restaurant. A small guy, light and compact. And then Hannah’s description of the man outside her window. She’d used that same word. Shortish.

  Marshall said, ‘Nephews. With an S?’

  ‘Uh …’ Looking at the phone again. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So how many people did she see?’

  ‘Well, I mean, I don’t know. There’s nothing else on the thread. There’s just the mention of the one guy, but Esther – Mrs Lopez – definitely said nephews, plural. Might’ve been a typo, I guess.’

  Marshall said, ‘Which house is Lydia’s?’

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘I hope so. Like I said, Hannah had a guy …’ He pivoted slightly, midsentence, not wanting to get too heavy in front of the kids. ‘Hannah noticed a man outside her house last night.’

  The girl said, ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘Shh, sweetie.’

  Marshall said, ‘Which house is Lydia’s?’

  ‘Uh … Lydia, Lydia …’

  The girl said, ‘She’s next to Jeanie. She’s right next to Jeanie.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. Ah …’ He came to the window and pointed. ‘That’s Jeanie there, so that must be Lydia, to the right of her.’

  Marshall said, ‘Appreciate your help.’

  ‘Do you need me to come over?’

  ‘No, don’t worry. I’ll let you know.’

  Bruce Linney walked him to the door and saw him off with a handshake and a worried look. When Marshall crossed the street and glanced back, there were three faces at the window, watching him: Linney, and the two kids chin-to-sill.

  He walked over to the house they’d identified as Lydia’s, went up the front steps and stood listening. Nothing. The drapes had been pulled across the windows. The glass showed a faint sweat of condensation. Marshall knocked at the door.

  Another moment’s silence, and then he heard a cat: a meow, very faint, and then silence.

  Marshall knocked again. The cat answered once more, weak and plaintive.

  It took a few seconds, but then the details combined, and the adrenaline hit him: the chemical jolt of a bad feeling.

  The cat, the moisture on the glass.

  Maybe nothing. Maybe a very bleak picture.

  He went back down the steps and stood on the sidewalk, scanning windows, knowing he had to go into this calm. He looked to his right, westward toward Fourth, and on the north side of the street, sixty yards away, he could see the Vialoux place. An oblique vantage, but the entry was visible, and the front windows, and Ray’s car sitting there at the curb.

  He went up Lydia’s steps again and tried the handle: thumb and first finger in a pincer grip, minimizing contact area, not wanting to disrupt prints if there were any.

  Locked.

  They wouldn’t make it that easy. He knocked one last time, wanting to be wrong, wanting a harmless reality to intervene with his suspicions.

  Silence. Then the cat meowed again.

  Marshall glanced behind him, across the street, and saw the Linneys still watching him. He took a long pace back, stood on the edge of the top step and balanced on the balls of his feet, boot heels hanging off the tread. He bounced there for a moment, getting some tension in his legs, pictured the masked face of the man with the gun. He superimposed the little asshole on the door handle, and then lunged forward with a kick, heel-first. A big man, a Doc Marten, a lot of practice: the door smashed open and bounced off its stop and swung back, almost closed.

  Marshall shouldered in.

  He was ready for the smell: putrid, cloying, unmistakable. He zipped his coat and ducked his nose inside the collar. The cat was upstairs, meowing frantically now. Marshall knew the men would be long gone, but training and habit made him clear the ground floor first. Deserted. He went upstairs, following the stench.


  The old woman – Lydia, he presumed – was in the bedroom, on the bed. Marshall guessed she’d been dead three or four days. The cat was a gray tabby, and it was up there beside her, keeping guard, mewing.

  Marshall clicked his fingers gently, beckoning, and then picked it up carefully under one arm.

  ‘Here you go. It’s all right.’

  It squirmed in his grip, looked at the woman on the bed. Her wrists and ankles were bound behind her with duct tape. More tape covered her mouth. It had been looped several times around her lower skull for surety of muteness. A plastic drinking straw protruded from the tape at the corner of her mouth, the stem carefully lapped into the wrappings. The straw was in six pieces, tape-spliced to form a single tube leading to a bucket beside the bed. The bucket was empty. She was long since out of water. She looked to be at least seventy-five, very frail. Taped up like that with her wrists behind her, she’d have never had the strength to make it off the bed. Her eyes were wide, as if surprised at the sudden push that sent her over the edge. Marshall tried to put himself behind those eyes, and he knew he couldn’t. He looked around, and he just couldn’t.

  He stroked the cat, trying to quiet it. ‘It’s all right. We’ll find you new friends. We’ll find you some nice people.’

  The cat settled down a little, but it was still tense and twitchy under his arm. They went and looked in the bathroom. A shower stall and a toilet and a vanity. A strong mold smell, but it was better than the smell in the rest of the house. The bed in the guestroom was just a bare mattress. Marshall went downstairs and did another circuit of the ground floor. The living room appeared as if untouched for twenty or thirty years, not two or three days. Lime-green wallpaper and faded pink furniture. The walls were covered with photographs and embroidered art, everything protected by dusty glass. The photos all featured Lydia, and a man Marshall assumed was her husband – dead too, he guessed. Earlier checkout, nicer circumstances.

  The embroidered pieces were all six-by-six-inch panels. Ducks and dogs and fruit bowls, in the pixel-language of coarse thread. There was a larger piece, maybe twelve-by-twelve, unfinished on the sofa. A tiger coming together quite nicely. That one detail anchored Marshall in place for a moment. Sometimes it was like that. He remembered from his police days, seeing corpses, murder victims, and feeling almost unaffected, in a way. Like the horror was abstract. Then gradually he’d see the details, all those little pieces that go into building up a life, and he’d know what had happened, what had been taken from the world.