Kill and Be Killed

by Louis Begley

  My mind was wandering, but with Martin’s prompting we went quickly through the basic stuff about Jeanette. Widow, husband an army master sergeant killed on deployment in Iraq. Two daughters, with children, I believe married, living in Oakland, California. One sister, a divorced retired librarian, living in White Plains. Yes, Mrs. Truman has been working for me as a live-in housekeeper since my uncle’s death last year and had been working for him in that capacity for more than thirty years; live-in since the death of her husband.

  This is an unusual mugging, said Walker. For one thing, these days muggings rarely occur in your neighborhood. This would be the first one this year. Quite a change from not so many years ago. Mrs. Truman wore her pocketbook bandolier-style. It was still on her shoulder, unopened. She had her MetroCard clutched in her hand and didn’t let go of it during the attack. The assailant beat her on the face, most likely hard slaps. Her nose is broken; the lips are split; eyes are swollen shut. I don’t know whether the jaw is broken. She’s got broken ribs. Obviously a concussion. I don’t know about internal injuries. This brings me to my question: do you know of anyone—a personal enemy, hers or her late husband’s—who would have stalked and attacked her? It doesn’t look to me like a random assault. Would you agree, Martin?

  Martin shook his head. Nah, he said, not the way you describe it.

  What do you think, Mr. Dana?

  I hoped the question would go away. It didn’t. Walker continued to stare at me.

  A personal enemy? I said. It’s out of the question. I don’t believe Mrs. Truman has a single enemy. Since she was widowed, her whole life has been looking after my uncle and, now that he’s dead, after me. That and, of course, her church in White Plains. As for her husband—I wouldn’t know, but he died nine or ten years ago. It seems out of the question.

  And you?

  I’ll give you an answer, but it’s not simple. Since I returned from Italy a week ago—I’d been away almost a year—there have been threatening calls made to the apartment, to my telephone. The threats are directed at me, but a couple of times Mrs. Truman was the one who answered the telephone. My advice has been to tell the caller, in case she answered again, that I would be glad to talk to him or to meet him, and having done so, to hang up. I’m sure she has followed my instructions. By the way, the caller appears to identify himself sometimes as Jovan.

  I spelled for him J-O-V-A-N. Probably he is the same man who called this evening, a minute or two after you called, and spoke to me. I think I can quote him exactly: “Greetings from Jovan. Tonight I beat. Maybe next time I kill.” It so happened that Mr. Sweeney was there and heard him. He can confirm my version.

  Is that about right? I asked, turning to Martin.

  Yeah. He nodded. Exactly as Captain Dana said minus an expletive.

  Walker checked his recording device.

  I see, he said. This is very interesting. Have you any idea who Jovan is, or why these calls are made? By the way, have you reported this harassment to the police?

  No, I don’t know who he is, and no, I haven’t reported the calls, I replied. And I don’t really know why these calls are made—except, as you put it, to harass me.

  I’m surprised, said Walker. Why haven’t you turned to us?

  In the first place, I haven’t felt personally intimidated. Second, I didn’t believe I had anything useful to tell the police department. Obviously, if making a report could have in any way prevented this attack, or gotten protection for Mrs. Truman, I was horribly wrong. I must say, though, that her being singled out as the target of violence is something that never crossed my mind.

  And how about you? Have you enemies you’re aware of?

  Clearly, yes. My uncle Harry Dana was murdered last year, in the first days of January, at his house in Sag Harbor, down in eastern Long Island. The murder was made to look like a suicide. The next day, his long-term secretary was pushed under a subway train. Then in May of last year—on May fourth, to be precise—an attempt was made on my life at that very house in Sag Harbor, which I had inherited from my uncle, just like the apartment on Fifth Avenue where I live. I killed the intruder. The intruder was a hit man by the name of Slobodan Milić. He was the man who killed my uncle and his secretary. I recorded his confession before he died and turned it over to Mr. Flanagan, the U.S. attorney for the Southern District, shortly after the events I’ve described. It occurs to me that the person making the threatening calls and whoever attacked Mrs. Truman may be in some way connected with the hit man I killed and that desire for revenge may play a role in all this.

  I kept an eye on Martin Sweeney as I spoke, hoping that if I was too close to the line in editing the information he would alert me by his facial expression or body language. To my relief, he remained entirely impassive.

  A couple more questions. You’re unmarried, right?

  Yes.

  Isn’t it rather strange for an unmarried young man—you’re a little over thirty, I’d guess—to have a live-in housekeeper and to occupy a large apartment on Fifth Avenue? I believe that all the apartments in your building are large.

  The guy was getting on my nerves, and I was about to tell him so when Martin broke in.

  Easy there, Rod, he said. The captain here is a war hero, a decorated Marine Corps Infantry officer, and a bestselling novelist. You heard of the film Returning? Maybe you’ve seen it. It’s based on his book. If he wants to live in a Fifth Avenue apartment with a full-time housekeeper that’s his business. He can afford it!

  Thanks, Martin, I said. I don’t mind the detective’s questions. But I believe I’ve said all I have to say. Unless there is something specific you need to know, Detective Walker, I’ll leave you now and find Mrs. Truman and her doctor. I also need to call the sister. I assume she’ll get in touch with the daughters.

  No problem, Walker said. I have your telephone number and address. I’ll need you to sign a statement after I’ve typed up this interview. Will you be available?

  I’ll be going to Alexandria, Virginia, for a couple of days, I replied, as soon as the doctor tells me that Mrs. Truman’s condition is stable, and probably I’ll be spending some weekends in Sag Harbor. I’m in the telephone directory over there. Otherwise I’ll be around.

  —

  Without a word having been exchanged between us, Martin followed me as I set off to find the attending physician.

  When my poor father had the big stroke that put him into a vegetative state, I was a senior at Yale. I got the call in the middle of the night from our next-door neighbor, who’d been alerted by my father’s cook, jumped into my car, and headed for Cambridge determined to get to the hospital while Father was still alive. Massachusetts state troopers stopped me doing ninety and ribbed me about being a good son when I told them I was hurrying to my father’s bedside. In the end, they let me go, after taking all my cash. By the time I got to the hospital he had already been installed in a bed in the ward. In the course of previous visits, for the little strokes, he’d trained the hospital to understand that paying the difference not covered by insurance between the cost of a private room where he’d have privacy and that of the ward or a semiprivate room was unthinkable. That last time, he had nothing to say. Harry and I took over and made sure that his remaining days as a vegetable were passed in comfort, that he was beautifully bathed, powdered, and diapered, and that no bedsore broke his skin. So this visit was my first to a civilian emergency room, which revealed itself as yet another circle of hell, a brilliantly lit cavern in which patients slumped over in chairs or stretched out on gurneys moaned or mumbled or screamed nonsense while shapes recognizable as relatives or friends crisscrossed the space, pursuing nurses and doctors, bent on securing their benevolence. Other shapes besieged the white Formica-enclosed islets of privilege, where nurses and young interns cracked jokes and interrogated computer screens.

  Fatal and perfidious dinner, I thought, what had I done? If only I’d asked Heidi out to a restaurant instead of wanting like an asshole to sho
w off Jeanette and the apartment, if only Heidi had been on time, if only Jeanette had gotten away earlier. If only…Nonsense, they would have gotten her whatever time she left. Somebody told them: Beat her. There was no way they weren’t going to do it.

  Martin was tugging at my sleeve. Snap out of it, Captain, you’re losing it. I’ll find the doctor. You stay right here.

  The Pakistani doctor, a friendly man with a little mustache, said the beating had been bad; she looked really bad but was lucky. There was a concussion—presumably from the impact of her head hitting the sidewalk, but he didn’t think there were other significant internal injuries—CAT scans had been ordered to confirm that and determine the extent of intracranial bleeding. Neurological tests would be necessary. Her jaw had not been broken. The plastic surgeon would set her nose in the morning and possibly sew up her lip. She had many broken ribs; he wasn’t sure how many. Slaps to the face and kicks. There was nothing to be done about the ribs, except to leave them to nature. We used to tape broken ribs, he continued, but now we understand that entails risks.

  I would like to see her, I told him.

  He nodded and led us to a gurney at the end of a corridor.

  Can’t we get her into a room? I asked.

  He shook his head. We have to keep her here so she can have her CAT scans and neurological work done first thing tomorrow morning.

  Jeanette’s face, normally very pale—more lait than café, according to Harry—was a shiny black and swollen like the face of a corpse fallen in battle and left unburied for days. I half expected the usual fetor and flies. Her eyes were closed. But she was alive.

  No use trying to speak to her, said the doctor, she’s in very deep sleep. I’ll still be on duty when the tests are done. If you wish I’ll call you, but don’t expect a call before eight, eight-thirty. By the way, I’m a big fan of your novels.

  I seized his hand and thanked him.

  Martin, who thought of everything, gave him my telephone numbers as well as his own.

  Stay here another minute, he said.

  When he returned, it was to report that a private room was available and that he’d told the admissions person I’d want it for Jeanette. Round-the-clock nursing was available too, but I would have to stop by the nursing office when it opened to make the arrangements.

  By the time I’d taken care of the room and called the sister, who said she’d been calling my apartment and was sick with worry—and reassured her as best I could—it was past midnight.

  Martin, I said, putting an arm around his shoulder, I’d be lost without you, but it’s really late. You should hop into a taxi and go home.

  Not a chance, Captain, he answered, not if you can spare some more of that Jameson. I’ve already texted Lee. He’ll take over tomorrow morning while I get my beauty rest.

  —

  I had better leave you for a moment, I said to Martin after I had served him his drink and poured an Oban for myself, and send Scott an email telling him I’ll have to stay in the city until Jeanette is out of the woods.

  He nodded. Good idea. Let’s talk about Miss Krohn after you’ve done that.

  Look, Captain, he said when I returned to the library, we’ve got some serious problems to discuss.

  Only if you knock off the “captain” shit. My name is Jack.

  Thanks, Jack! I’m honored to do that. Look, Jack: you may not be thinking of that now, but you’re in real personal danger. What they did to Jeanette wasn’t some sort of happy-anniversary card they sent you. It was bold, brutal, and well aimed. I’ve no idea what they’ll try next, but they’ll sure try something. The question is whether there’ll be some intermediate fun and games before they close in for the kill. It depends on whether there is something they want while you’re still alive.

  There is a document, I said. Heidi has it. Based on what she’s told me, it’s dynamite. They may think I have it and they can get it from me. It’s a good idea to keep them thinking that if it keeps her off their screen. That means to me that we have to make sure they don’t establish a connection between her and me. Unless there is some indication that they think she’s the problem, I doubt that providing her with security, something like what we did for Kerry, is a good idea.

  Is the document in a safe place?

  I think so, I told him.

  Can I have another? Martin asked, and held out his glass.

  A good idea.

  My bartender duty performed, we drank in silence until he spoke again.

  Do you have by any chance a list of the people working in this building? Martin asked suddenly.

  I do, I said, as of last Christmas. It’s in my computer, marked to show the checks I sent them. Ordinarily, I’d give cash, but I was away. Let me print it for you.

  When I returned and gave him the sheet, I said, I can’t be absolutely sure whether they’re all still here or whether there is somebody new. I’ve been back such a short time!

  Thanks, said Martin. I want to check out these people. One-half seem to be some sort of Serbs or Croats or maybe Montenegrins. The rest are Irish and Polacks. Interesting mixture. I bet they’re clean, but that doesn’t mean they don’t talk. You know, such as Mr. Dana said he’s going away for the weekend, or He said he’s staying in town, or There is a young lady who comes to visit all the time, or Yeah, the housekeeper has her evening off on such day. Who they talk to I have no idea, but it could be anybody. A cousin visiting from the old country. Someone they go bowling with. You get the picture.

  I do. Checking them out is a smart idea, and I’ll find out whether there are any new hires.

  Good deal, he replied. By the way, your firearm is registered, and the registration is in order?

  Yes, of course, I said.

  And New York City validated?

  Yes, I said, and I have a license to carry it concealed. Not that I lug my Colt 1911 with me.

  Good deal, Martin said again. I wouldn’t want a character like Walker to grab the chance to run you in and perhaps get you into a lot of trouble.

  What’s this all about?

  You saw the little pin he had in his necktie, a gold Christmas tree? I was surprised he wore it so openly. It’s the Tannenbaum Society. Open to policemen. I’m sorry to say some of my former colleagues belong too. It’s mostly secret, something like the old John Birch Society only weirder. It doesn’t stop him from being a good cop, but I don’t like and don’t trust those guys. They’ve got strange agendas and strange friends.

  Interesting, I said. More and more interesting. Now I’ll tell you another reason why I want Abner to believe I have the document he wants. It will make him move against me. And that will be my chance to kill his thugs. I wish he’d come after me himself so I could cut his heart out. I know. It won’t happen. And now, why don’t you go and get your beauty sleep? Call me tomorrow—anytime. We’ll get together and figure out what else we should do.

  —

  I must have slept five hours straight and woke up feeling rested and alert. It was a dry morning. A run would do me good. I set my landline phone to forward calls to my iPhone—I didn’t want to take a chance on missing the doctor’s call—got into my running shoes, stuck the switchblade into my windbreaker pocket, and headed for the park. My building’s door was locked at that hour, and Emil, the night man, opened it for me. We exchanged the usual comments about the weather, but I felt a tinge of unease. Was it by any chance he who reported my comings and goings? Who else could it be? If there were such informers, did they coordinate passing on the information, or was it all very casual?

  I ran fast, thinking that the one temporary concession I’d make to my pelvis was to limit the distance to about four and a half miles, and was glad to see that no one was overtaking me. A quick look around the building as I was leaving had revealed nothing unusual, and no one had followed me from Fifth Avenue into the park. That, I realized, didn’t prove anything because if Jovan & Co. had me scheduled for an early morning run, whoever was to tail or attack me c
ould be waiting inside the park rather than outside my building, especially if they had also figured out that I was in the habit of entering the park at Seventy-Ninth Street. I took a look at the figures running behind me, and headed north: women, who I assumed were not a problem, men of various ages and body builds who didn’t look anything like Slobo or the thug in Torcello, and one guy who had real potential. Big and fast, with a stupid face. What was I to do about him? The obvious test was to change my pace. He followed my lead, but that could mean only that we were both good runners and he liked regulating his speed according to mine. I could simply leave the park and see what he’d do. The problem was that he and his handlers might think he’d scared me. Rapidly, I decided to keep going another mile and cut toward the Ravine, which I was pretty sure would be deserted. A great place for him to do his thing and for me to do mine. In a beautiful setting! The waterfall is at its best in the autumn, I told myself. Let’s see if my new buddy enjoys it as much as I.

  He followed me like a cocker spaniel. For all I knew he was wagging his tail. I put on some speed, clambered up and down a rock or two, and got us to the chosen spot. Behind me was a big slab of granite, perfect for the sacrifice of Isaac. As I expected, we were alone. The waterfall was also as expected—gorgeous. I admired it, keeping an eye on my pal, wondering what he’d do. Surprise, surprise! He did absolutely nothing—no, that’s not quite right. Standing about fifteen feet from me, he started running in place and doing fancy stretches. He looked like an idiot, but his approach presented a dilemma. I didn’t think I could attack him without further provocation. After all, as my mother liked saying, it’s a free country, and his following me on my morning run wasn’t per se a reason for knifing him. There was also the little legal problem: I killed the fellow in Torcello in self-defense, and a pretty good argument could be made that I killed Slobo in self-defense as well. Justifiable homicide was my ticket! If this was Jovan or Jovan’s little brother I certainly wanted to kill him too, but I didn’t want to go to jail. Or even take a serious risk of going to jail.