“Ray!” he shouted. “It’s gone!”
“Thomas, for Christ’s sake, can you see—”
“It’s gone! The head’s gone.”
“What?” I said, swinging my legs off the bed and reaching down for my boxers. “What are you talking about?”
“You have to see this!” he said. He exited the room and ran back down the hall to his own.
I followed him, wearing nothing but my underwear. Julie had struggled back into her top, not bothering with her bra, and came along after me.
As I went into Thomas’s room I saw that he had all his monitors focused on the window on Orchard Street. It sure looked like the same window, except this time there was nothing in the frame. It was black. No more bag-wrapped head.
“What the hell?” I said.
Thomas stood there, pointing. “Where did it go? What happened to it?”
I stammered, “They must, they, I guess, they must have updated it. Taken pictures of the street again.”
“No!” he said. “Everything else is exactly the same! The same people on the street. The same cars! Everything’s the same except the head is gone!”
I dropped myself into Thomas’s chair and looked at the screen. “Son of a bitch,” I said.
Thomas grabbed a sheet of paper off the table and handed it to me. A printout of the original image, like the one he’d sent with me to New York. “It’s exactly the same, right?”
I studied the printout. “It’s the same, Thomas, it’s the same.”
Julie sidled up next to Thomas, then took the printout from me and studied it, not saying anything.
“Why, Ray?” Thomas asked. “Why is it gone? Why is it gone, right after you went into the city to check it out?”
I was shaking my head. I couldn’t make any sense of it. In the last twenty-four hours, someone had gone into this site and wiped out the image. Since I had been down there. Since I’d knocked on the door and had a few words with the neighbor.
I felt a chill. And not just because I was sitting there with almost no clothes on.
Julie touched my brother gently on the arm. “Okay, you know what, Thomas? Start from the beginning. Tell me all about what you’ve seen, and what you think it means.”
THIRTY-NINE
LEWIS Blocker called Howard Talliman Monday morning.
“It’s done.”
Howard said, “Hold on.” He put the cell phone on the granite counter in the kitchen of his Upper East Side brownstone and supported himself on the countertop with both hands. He hadn’t slept in days and he felt like his body was shaking all the time, like he was walking around in a world with nonstop low-level earth tremors.
This was the call he was waiting for, and now that he’d received it, he had to steady himself, take a few breaths. He picked up the cell again and said, “I’m here.”
“Go to your computer.”
Howard hauled himself up onto one of the barstools and opened the laptop on the raised stretch of counter. He entered the Whirl360 address into the Web browser and found his way to that Orchard Street window.
The head was gone.
“Lewis,” he said.
“I’m here.”
“I looked. It’s gone.”
“Yeah. She got it done.”
Howard was pleased, but he wasn’t about to shower any accolades on the woman who’d screwed this thing up from the get-go. “Any complications?”
“Some.”
“Any that could blow back and hurt us?”
“No.”
“Okay. Where are we on the other matters?”
“She’s gone back to Dayton to babysit the mother. Still waiting. And I’m still looking for our visitor.”
“It’s nice to have a little bit of good news for once,” Howard said. “But we’re still deep in the woods.”
“Yes.” Lewis paused. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Howard ended the call, slid the phone across the counter, and put his head into his hands. God, he needed a drink and it was only eight. He needed his strength. He had an appointment with Morris Sawchuck this morning.
THE man was becoming increasingly restless. He wanted to reactivate his campaign plans. Announce formally, after delaying for nine months, that he would be seeking the office of the governor of the State of New York.
It had made sense, back in August, for Morris to put his ambitions on hold. One very personal reason that had become very public, and another—his complicity in the CIA director’s deal with terrorists—that he’d prayed would never become public at all.
And a third reason he knew nothing about.
Oblivious, Morris believed there was no longer a reason to put his career on the back burner. Enough time had passed. Had he known a woman named Allison Fitch was still out there—and that she could destroy him—he might well have felt differently.
Every day, Howard Talliman lived with the fear the woman would surface. He checked Web sites on his phone before he was even out of bed. He grabbed the TV remote, turned on CNN in his bedroom, flipped back and forth between it and the Today show. Imagined Wolf Blitzer saying, “And now, in a CNN exclusive, we talk to a woman who’s come out of hiding to accuse Morris Sawchuck and the people around him of trying to have her killed. Not only is she accusing the New York attorney general of attempted murder, but of being complicit in the disgraced former CIA director’s plan not to pursue charges against—”
That was when Howard imagined turning off the TV, getting his hands on a gun, and blowing his brains out.
Not unlike what Barton Goldsmith ultimately decided to do.
While Howard and Morris fretted that the attorney general’s involvement in the CIA director’s deal with terrorists would become known, Goldsmith was feeling the pressure as well. He was going to be called to testify before a congressional committee. Everything was going to come out.
So Barton Goldsmith rose early one morning, walked into the backyard of his Georgetown home, stood among the beautiful flowers in his garden, put the barrel of a pistol in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.
God bless him, Howard thought. Morris, as was his nature, was circumspect. “A terrible thing,” he said in an interview. “Such a loss.” Inside, Howard believed, Morris had to be dancing a jig.
So with Goldsmith out of the picture, Morris felt that threat had been neutralized. But Howard knew a bigger one remained. If Fitch surfaced, and talked, everything would start spilling out. Howard didn’t know what, exactly, Fitch had heard, or thought she’d heard, Bridget saying on her cell phone during that Barbados vacation. But she’d intimated she knew something.
Sooner or later, Fitch would overcome her fear of the authorities. When an attorney general, or at least those working on his behalf, orders a hit on you, it’s bound to make you hesitant about going to the police. But one day, Howard believed, she’d screw up her courage.
Howard could not allow Morris to move forward with his plans while that remained a possibility. The trick was keeping the man in check without telling him why he needed to hold off.
Howard could not tell him the truth.
Howard could never tell him the truth.
He was sitting at his desk when the phone buzzed. It was his secretary, Agatha. “He’s here,” she said. She hadn’t even finished that short sentence before the door opened and in strode The Man himself.
Howard was up and around his desk, hand extended. “Hey,” he said. Morris returned the handshake with a firm grip. He walked over to the bar Howard kept in the corner of his office and poured two scotches.
“I had a very interesting conversation this morning,” Morris said, handing one to Howard.
“Who with?” Howard said.
“Bridget.”
“Is that a fact,” Howard said, settling himself into a chair as Morris did the same. “What did you talk about?”
Morris grinned. “A lot of things. We talk all the time, you know.”
“I’m sure you do.”
/>
“But today, it was kind of special. She told me it was time.”
Howard drank. “Did she?”
Morris nodded. “She told me to follow my dream. She said to go for it. She said I’d waited long enough. She told me she didn’t want me waiting any more because of her.”
“Well.”
“Because, honestly, she’s been the only reason I’ve still been waiting, Howard. This thing with Goldsmith, it’s over. When’s the last time you saw the Times do a story on it? The man’s secrets died with him.”
“Other people know. Other people in the agency.”
“They won’t talk, Howard. They’ve closed ranks. It’s over.”
“We can’t ever be certain of that.”
“So what are you saying? That we never move forward? That we never get back on the horse?”
“I’m not saying that, Morris. But we still need to proceed with caution. We can’t lose sight of our long-term objectives. Morris, you can make it all the way. You know that, don’t you? You can get there, right to Pennsylvania Avenue. I know it. I have faith. But it can’t happen if we take the short view. We have to make our decisions with the future in mind.”
Morris knocked back his drink, set the glass on the table between them, and looked down into his lap. He went very quiet.
“Morris? Are you okay?”
“Bridget said something else,” he said.
“Morris, do you really think—”
“She said she forgives me.” He raised his head and looked at Howard. “That’s what she said. She forgives me.”
“Well, that’s good, Morris, but I don’t see how that relates—”
“Do you know what that meant to me? Do you have any idea the guilt I’ve been feeling?”
“Of course I do. God knows, we’ve been over it. And I’ve told you, you don’t have anything to feel guilty about. You weren’t the only one who didn’t see the signs. None of us did. Some people, they keep their troubles to themselves, buried deep inside.”
“I still can’t get my head around it. I asked her, you know.”
Howard swallowed. “You asked Bridget.”
“I did. I asked her, when she appeared to me, I asked her why. Why didn’t she just talk to me? We could have worked it out. You know what she said to me?”
Howard closed his eyes. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. “What did she say, Morris?”
“She said not to blame myself.”
“Well, that’s terrific. That really is.”
Morris gave his friend a sharp look. “Don’t be flip about this, Howard. I don’t appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry. Really, I am. But, Morris, we can’t move forward based on what Bridget tells you. I’m dealing with the real world. With the press, and federal investigators, a scandal that could still bite us in the ass.”
Morris seemed not to be listening. “It’s just, when you compare what Bridget is saying now, to what she told you on the phone—it’s very different. She told you I was sucking the life out of her. Wasn’t that what she told you?”
“You have to consider her state of mind at the time.”
“What if, at that moment, she was thinking as clearly as she ever had?”
“Jesus Christ, Morris!” Howard exploded. “Enough.”
Morris sat back in his chair as though he’d been shoved.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You have to stop. You have to move on.”
“Haven’t you been listening, Howard? That’s exactly what I want to do, what Bridget wants. You’re the one holding me back.”
“And you should thank God I am,” he snapped back. “While you’re having chats with ghosts, I’m dealing with political realities.” He was on his feet, pointing a finger at Morris. “And you need to wait. You get back into this too soon, those goddamn pundits, you know what they’re going to say? That you got over her pretty fast, that’s what they’ll say. You’ll look insensitive.”
Morris looked away. “Two wives,” he said.
“What?”
“It would be hard enough for a man to have one wife kill herself. But two? What does that say about a man? What does that say about me? First Geraldine kills herself in the garage. And then Bridget.” He looked imploringly at Howard. “Just what kind of monster am I?”
“You see?” Howard said. “This just proves that you’re not ready to get back into the game. You still need time to heal. Morris, trust me. I’m your friend. And I’m telling you this, as your friend, that this is not the time.”
Yeah, I’m some friend, Howard thought. I sent someone to kill your blackmailer, and ended up killing your wife instead.
Sometimes Bridget spoke to Howard, too, but she was far less forgiving.
FORTY
IT is August.
Allison Fitch has worked her usual shift, and would normally be sleeping now, this time of day, but she is up early. She’s had a phone call, and now she has an errand to run. She’s dressed, ready to go out. She has to run downstairs to the scarf store. She had managed, the week before, against all odds, to get them to accept a personal check for $123.76 for two silk scarves. “I live on the block, practically above your shop,” she’d told them. “I’m in here all the time,” she’d said. She’d shown them her ID, a driver’s license. Gave them her cell phone number. The girl on the cash register was new and finally relented.
Check bounced.
The manager has called. Three times. Most recently, fifteen minutes ago. Told Allison that if she isn’t there with $123.76 in cash in the next hour, she’s going to call the police and tell them Allison Fitch has defrauded them.
As it turns out, Allison has more than five hundred dollars in cash in her purse. A bunch of dickheaded traders from a prominent Wall Street firm had a party at the bar last night. They’d made some kind of killing in the market and were celebrating. Throwing money around. Tipping big. And, earlier in the day, Allison had gone to the ATM and taken out a couple of hundred. With all that cash, she figures she could go on a shopping spree when she gets up the next day. A warm-up before the really big money comes. She figures Howard Talliman will be in touch anytime now to set up a meeting, where he’ll hand over the cash in exchange for her silence.
Boy, she thinks, the expression on his face when she let him believe she’d heard Bridget having some kind of top secret chat with her husband. Guy looked like he’d just eaten a rat sandwich. She’d just figured it stood to reason a man like Morris Sawchuck had secrets, and that he might discuss them with his wife.
Suppose she’d heard some of them?
Hilarious thing is, she never heard a goddamn thing. But now she’s more sure than ever that she’s going to get that one hundred grand. Pretending to hear the call was just the icing on the lesbo-affair cake she needed to seal the deal.
So she figures, what the hell, she’ll pay off that bitch for the scarves, then come home, go back to bed.
She is slipping on her jacket, throwing the strap of her purse over her shoulder when she gets a buzz from the lobby.
Allison hits the button. “Yeah?”
“It’s me. We need to talk.”
Shit. Bridget.
Allison lets her in and half a minute later Bridget is at her apartment door.
“Hey,” Allison says, closing the door as the woman comes into the kitchen.
“What did you tell him?”
“What?”
“What did you tell Howard? What did you tell him you heard?”
Allison holds up a hand. “Look, we met, we came to an arrangement, and everything’s okay, so don’t worry about it.”
“What did you hear?”
“I’m not getting into this with you. And listen, if anyone’s got a bone to pick, it’s me. You should have been up front with me. You should have told me who you really were.”
“Allison, listen to me. You’re making a mistake, pushing Howard too far.”
“We got along fine. Every
thing’s cool.”
“Whatever he’s agreed to give you, you have to promise him you’ll never, ever, hit him up for more. He’ll do anything to protect my husband. If you’re smart, you’ll call it all off. You’ll tell him you don’t want any money, that he doesn’t need to buy your silence, that you’ll never say a word about us to anyone, that you never heard any—”
“Look, this is fun and all, but I really have to go. I’ve got to run downstairs and deal with this bitch who says I owe her money. I’ll be, like, five minutes. Stay here, make yourself at home, whatever, we’ll talk when I get back.”
“You have to believe me,” Bridget says. “You’re in over your head.”
“Fine, fine, we’ll talk about it when I get back.” Allison slides her purse strap higher onto her shoulder and heads out into the hall, pulling the door closed behind her.
Bridget stands briefly in the kitchen, then, feeling restless, moves farther into the apartment. She walks into the living room area, where the pullout couch Allison sleeps on is extended, the covers a mess. She reaches for a Cosmopolitan on the coffee table, looks at the cover featuring Ashley Greene and the headline “60 Sex Tips,” notices the issue is months old. She drops it back onto the table.
Bridget goes to the living room window, gazes down the street, looks at the traffic. There’s a car down there with something funny on top of it. A small car, a Civic maybe, with a short pole fixed to the roof with brackets, and something mechanical-looking on the end of it.
Bridget steps away from the window, still restless. She wanders into the bedroom, casts her eye upon this second unmade bed. She walks around it to the bedroom window and stands there, listens to the muffled sounds of the city through the pane of glass, feeling anxious. She berates herself, for at least the hundredth time, for allowing herself to get into a compromising relationship. For putting everything at risk. Herself. Her husband. His future.
I’m such a fool, she thinks. Such an idiot. I have everything and I’m throwing it away. Need to control my impulses. There’s that weird car again. What is that on—
Hears something behind her. Starts to turn.
Trust Your Eyes Page 25
