by Lisa Unger
“That’s it,” said Jez. She’d been standing in the corner, silent, brooding. In spite of the ice, her eye was started to swell badly. She moved quickly to the table. Grady could see that she was pissed, wanted reason to put her hands on Charlie Shane. He thought he was going to have to intervene. But she backed away, moved toward the door. “Too much conversation. Let’s get the paperwork started.”
“Wait,” said Shane, lifting a hand. Jez paused at the door but didn’t turn around.
“Start with how you knew Camilla Novak,” said Jez.
Grady placed the only picture they had of Camilla, the one he’d found on the Internet, in front of him. Shane shook his head.
“We found her dead body in her apartment today,” Grady said. “She had a stamp on her hand from the Topaz Room, where we found you just a few hours ago. You were the doorman in the building of the man who more than probably killed her boyfriend and stole his identity. You knew her.”
More silence. Jez turned the knob and opened the door.
“I knew her,” he said quickly. “I knew her.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Jez closed the door and turned around.
“More than a few weeks ago—maybe closer to two months—I was covering Teaford’s shift and I heard yelling out on the street. It was after midnight. A woman, screaming.”
He released a deep breath, rubbed at his temples.
“I left my post and went out to the street and saw Miss Novak yelling at Mr. Raine.”
“What was she saying?”
“She was saying, ‘You love her, you love her. You weren’t supposed to love her.’”
“And what was Raine doing?”
“He was trying to calm her down, speaking in low tones. She screamed, ‘I betrayed him for you. I thought we were going to be together. I have blood on my hands for nothing.’ Something like that.” He waved a hand. “I don’t remember her exact words.”
His leg was still pumping and he was sweating as if he’d just spent an hour working out hard in the gym.
“Mr. Raine said, ‘Be patient. It’s almost through.’ He tried to walk away but she followed, yelling, ‘You liar, you liar. I’m going to burn it down. All of it.’ She grabbed hold of his arm. But he slapped her hard and she went reeling back. He saw me standing there then. ‘Call the police if she follows me,’ he told me. I was stunned. ‘Charlie, I know I can count on your discretion.’ He left her weeping on the street.”
“What did you do at that point?” asked Jez.
“I couldn’t just leave her there. After he went upstairs, I brought her into the lobby, gave her some ice for her mouth, asked if I could call her a taxi.”
“Where’d you get the ice?” asked Jez with a frown.
“What?” asked Shane. It must have seemed like a stupid question, apropos of nothing. But Grady knew why Jez had asked it. Lies lived in the little things, the details people threw in to make their stories sound truer.
“From a cooler I bring my meals in. I use an ice pack to keep things cold.”
She nodded, satisfied. Shane stared at the wall in front of him. “She seemed very fragile to me, unwell. I felt sorry for her. We talked awhile. I asked her what it was all about, the argument. Who had she betrayed? She said that she’d betrayed herself—over and over until she didn’t even remember who she was or what she wanted anymore. I told her that she wasn’t so different from anyone. We all betray ourselves one way or another. She said, ‘Not like this. Someone loved me, really loved me. And I betrayed him for a life I thought was in my reach.’ She wouldn’t tell me more.”
He paused a second. “She was beautiful, you know. But she seemed like a bird or a butterfly. You couldn’t catch her or touch her. Just look.”
“But you touched her, didn’t you?” Jez had returned to her corner; she was partially hidden in shadow. “A lot of people touched her. She was a call girl, right?”
He nodded reluctantly. “We made an arrangement.”
“You kept an eye on Raine, told her anything you saw suspicious or out of the ordinary, his comings and goings? And she gave herself to you in exchange?”
He gave a weak shrug. “Herself, once. Then passes to the Topaz Room. Other girls there.”
“But why would she want to know that? What was she looking for in particular?”
“She wanted to know things like how often the Raines went out, did they look happy, did he bring her flowers. She wanted to know if he stayed out late, brought any other women back to the apartment when Mrs. Raine was out of town. Things like that—jealous girlfriend things.”
“And what about Raine? Did he mention the incident again?”
Shane nodded. “On the way out to work the next morning, he gave me a hundred dollars, asked that I keep what happened the night before to myself. I agreed, of course. He said he’d continue to appreciate my discretion. And he did—with money, once tickets to a play once a nice bottle of scotch.”
“So you played them both.”
He bristled. “I obliged them both. Gave them both what they wanted.”
“Like any good doorman.”
“That’s right, sir.” But his chin dropped to his chest, shoulders lost their square.
“And this woman?” Grady tapped the photo of S.
Shane nodded. “She was one of the women I let into the apartment. There were four of them. Two women, two men. I let them in and out through the service door behind the building. They came with big empty sacks. When they left, they were all full. I didn’t ask any questions or say a word to any of them. Of course, I had no idea people had been murdered, that crimes had been committed. Until you came that night, I didn’t understand what I had done. I was afraid then. I ran.”
“Was he one of them?” Grady asked, pointing to the photograph of Ivan Ragan.
Shane shook his head. “No. Him—I’ve never seen.”
Isabel Raine had given them a lot of information—the photographs from the thumb drive in Camilla Novak’s purse, addresses, Web sites, names. She’d even drawn a few connections. Authors didn’t make bad detectives, it turned out.
“What else, Shane? What else do you have for us?”
Shane shook his head. “I am paid to be of service. And I did that for the Raines. It’s not my job to ask questions or pass judgment. I just hold open the door.”
Grady just stared at him for a minute. Shane was an oddity he didn’t quite understand. Grady couldn’t stop asking questions; finding the answers drove him. Analyzing, extrapolating meaning, finding connections—it was his job, his life. Maybe he had it all wrong.
“Camilla was a good girl, I think,” Shane said. “She made mistakes, had problems. But she wanted to be good.” He was just thinking out loud, Grady thought. Shane was tired, sinking into the depression that follows too much alcohol.
“Wanting to be good doesn’t make you good,” said Jez quietly, maybe a little sadly. She was looking down at her feet. Grady thought she should spring for a new pair of shoes.
“SO WHAT ARE we thinking here?” asked Grady. They were back at their desks on the homicide floor, facing each other. It was late, most everyone long gone for the night. They were both exhausted, but the adrenaline blast from earlier in the evening still had them edgy and wired.
Jez’s desk was a study of organization—neat stacks of folders, a few photos of her son, and nothing else. Grady’s was a field of clutter—papers waiting to be filed, a box of pens spilling its contents, a crumpled white bag from some meal he’d eaten there in the last week, an old mug in which coffee had solidified and was beginning to send off an odor. He dumped the cup in the trash rather than wash it, cleared a space to rest his elbows.
Jez had a printout of Isabel’s e-mail in front of her and was reading rather than looking at Grady.
“Camilla Novak and Kristof Ragan, if that’s really his name, conspired to kill Marcus Raine and steal his money,” she said. It sounded as if she was certain. This was how they did it—came up
with theories, tried to shoot them down, see if they held.
“Then how did Ragan wind up married to Isabel Connelly, running a legitmate business, leaving Camilla Novak weeping on the sidewalk outside his luxury, doorman building?”
She thought about it for a minute, tapping her pen. “He was a con. Isabel Connelly was his next mark. Somehow he convinced Novak to wait, promised her the payout would be even bigger after he’d run his con on Isabel Connelly and her family. Maybe he gave her money, continued their love affair, keeping her hope alive. But she got tired of waiting.”
Grady thought about it, about the e-mail Isabel had forwarded to him. “She started e-mailing Isabel Raine—trying to burn it down, like she threatened on the street.”
“He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with Isabel. But he did. He fell in love with her, with the life they made,” said Jez.
“He didn’t want to leave her,” Grady agreed.
“And his brother, Ivan Ragan?”
Grady already had a theory about this. “Okay. So Ivan and Kristof Ragan both come to the U.S. at the same time. Kristof is the good one, goes to college, gets a job at Red Gravity. There he meets Marcus Raine, decides he wants what this guy has—money, the girl. He enlists the help of his criminal brother—someone to do the dirty work, the kill, the disposal—for a share of the haul.”
“But at the end of the day, Kristof doesn’t want to share,” added Jez. She shifted through her file and found the arrest report for Ivan Ragan, handed it to Grady. “Ivan Ragan was arrested after an anonymous tip that he had enough guns in his home for a small army.”
“Kristof Ragan betrayed his brother, had him sent away.”
“Why not kill him? Why take the risk that Ivan would use what he knew to get off?”
Grady shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t want to kill his brother. Maybe he believed that Ivan wouldn’t betray him, wouldn’t suspect that his brother had been the one to turn him over to police.”
“But Kristof had to know Ivan would get out one day, that he’d have to pay his brother off at some point.”
“Maybe he thought he’d be long gone by then. He didn’t expect to fall in love with Isabel. This was the one thing he didn’t plan for, the thing that caused him to stay too long.”
Grady looked down at the photographs of Kristof and Ivan Ragan and the other unidentified men on the dock. “Ivan found out his brother betrayed him,” he said.
“Looks that way.”
Jez was looking down at her own set of prints, shaking her head slightly.
“Is money really that important?” Grady asked, thinking about Kristof Ragan and how he’d deceived and manipulated, stolen and killed. Ragan betrayed his own brother, shot him and left him for dead.
She raised her eyebrows. “Money is important. It’s very important.”
“So important that you sell your ethics, your morals, betray people who love you, murder?”
“For some. But I’m not sure that’s just about money.”
“What’s it about then?”
She looked down at her desk, tapped her fingers. “An idea, an image of what money is, what it brings to your life, how it defines your worth.”
He shook his head. “It’s hard to understand.”
“Is it?” she asked. “Before Benjy I never worried about money. I thought as long as I had what I needed to pay the bills, put some away for later, and have a few extras, that’s all I needed. I’ve seen those skells—pimps and drug dealers—with all their money. It bought them everything, cars and clothes, flat screens and leather couches. But they were still scum, still dirty, still nothing.”
“And now?”
“And now, there’s Benjy’s private school education and saving for college and the cost of health care, gas and groceries through the roof. And he goes to school with all these rich kids, and they have these sneakers that cost $200 and jeans that cost as much and more. Even the T-shirt he wanted? $150. I want him to have those things. I can’t always give them.”
Grady had never heard her say anything like that. He always thought of her as so sensible, pragmatic, not the type to worry about whether her kid had designer jeans or not.
“But he doesn’t need those things,” Grady said. “I never had them when I was a kid. Yeah, it sucked then. But I was better for it. And don’t they wear uniforms at private school?”
“Yeah, they do,” she said with a nod. “But after school and at parties, you know. Those kids are his friends. They live in homes that look like hotels. They show up in Polo and Izod. I hate sending him in less. But I have to. I won’t go into debt or sacrifice his future. And it’s almost Christmas. He wants a Wii, and a new bike. I can’t afford to get him all the things his friends will get.”
He could tell by the line of her mouth that she was sad, that these things worried her in bed at night. He wished good people didn’t have to fret over money.
“But I bet none of them has a mom who knows kung fu.”
“That’s true,” she said with a slow grin. “I am cool.”
“And cool beats rich any day. You could kick all the other moms’ asses.”
“Thanks, G.”
She looked down at her cuticles, snapping her right thumb and pinkie nail together. Something she did when she felt awkward or uncomfortable.
“I guess what I’m saying is that it’s not so hard to understand why Kristof Ragan liked what he had with Isabel Raine—the money, the lifestyle, the image. If it hadn’t been for Camilla Novak making threats, I doubt he would have fled. He’d still be running his company, maybe screwing around, but I think he liked the whole successful urban couple thing. He liked what he was with her.”
It made sense to Grady. Kristof Ragan had the life he wanted. Why would he leave it for Camilla Novak? He wouldn’t. He may have wanted her once; she was beautiful. But Isabel Connelly was the golden ticket—not just money. Class. Respect. With her, he had entrée into a whole other world.
“So who was the crew that trashed his office and home?” Jez said, flipping through the file, staring at the crime-scene photos. “How did he have associations like this?”
“Through his brother?”
Jez held up one of the frames Isabel Connelly had sent. Kristof Ragan surrounded by grim-faced, black-coated men on a Brooklyn pier. One of them his brother.
“I don’t think his brother’s allies were interested in working with him anymore, do you?”
“Maybe not,” he admitted.
Anyone else would be dead, but Kristof Ragan was still alive. He flipped through the photos, watching events unfold a frame at a time.
“He was combat-trained somewhere,” he said. “You don’t take down four armed men like that without some training.”
“The real question is: Who took these pictures? Who else was watching?” said Jez.
Somewhere a phone started ringing. Grady could hear a television set on down the hall—some kind of game, people cheering.
“And how did they get in Camilla Novak’s possession? Who was she giving them to? And why?” she went on, writing down her own questions in a notebook.
“No ID yet on the shooting victim in Central Park. I just checked with the morgue.”
“And who’s this chick?” Jez held up the picture of S.
“I don’t know but I’m glad she’s not my girlfriend. You’d never know if she was going to make love to you or kill you while you slept.”
Jez had a good laugh at that one, and he joined in until they were both doubled over, tearing. They were punchy now—overworked and overtired.
When they’d recovered, Grady e-mailed the photograph to Interpol and his contacts at the FBI, along with the photographs of the Ragan brothers on the pier, asking for an assist. They split up the paperwork. He had the banking records. Jez had the cell phone logs.
“I’m going to work this at home, catch a few hours, and take my baby to school in the morning,” said Jez.
“He’s ten. Not a baby.”
/>
She smiled. “You sound like my ex. He’ll always be my baby. Ten, sixteen, sixty—you’re always a baby to your mama.”
“True,” he said, thinking of his own ma.
They turned out their desk lamps and walked together to the door.
“You think Shane told us everything?” asked Jez.
“Probably not,” he said, holding the door for her. “But your eye doesn’t look as bad as I thought it was going to.” The swelling had gone down some, and instead of blooming purple, the blue had started to fade.
“I’ve taken worse hits in class. You bruise less over time.”
“You’re so butch.”
Another laugh from Jez. He liked to make her laugh; he didn’t know why.
22
At night, the smaller boys cried. They tried to be quiet. But they were always heard. In the morning, those who had wept were ridiculed mercilessly, beaten if they dared to fight back. Kristof had cried; not Ivan. But no one dared to beat him, because of the size and temper of his older brother. Neither he nor Ivan joined in the humiliations of the younger children.
Sometimes, even now, he awoke in the night hearing the sound of a child’s soft whimper, despair and loneliness cutting a swath through his center. Sometimes he was back there, a little boy, still weeping for his mother. Ivan had been a sweet and loyal brother, letting Kristof climb into his cot at night, waking earlier enough to shoo him out before the other boys woke. But Kristof stopped crying eventually, didn’t need Ivan’s comfort for long.
This morning he had awoken, hearing the sound of his brother roaring in pain, bleeding on the dock where he’d brought Kristof to die.
“You betrayed me!” he’d screamed. “You’re my brother!”
The other men, he’d shot to kill. Rolled them, still alive, into the water. Ivan, he’d shot to wound, to warn. He might have survived the injury, might have time to think about things, come to his senses.
“YOU OWE ME some money, Kristof,” Ivan had said in the car. It seemed like months ago—it hadn’t even been a week. They had left Manhattan, Isabel, the life he’d made, behind and were on the Brooklyn Bridge. He was still thinking about his wife, how she’d looked in the last moments he saw her on the street, getting ready for her run. Strong, determined, ready to battle the calories of the croissant she’d eaten. He almost smiled.
