“Heeeyyy,” says the other man, waving a white towel at the Mercedes SUV, surrendering to what has just happened.
✽✽✽
Ghost bursts through the door to his boss’s office.
“Sir, sorry, but I need to go home to change. Hose broke off in the rinse bay. Got soaked and I’m cold as fuck.” He takes off his drenched vinyl coat, throws it on the floor. He begins to scrunch up his wet tank top to wring out the water.
The boss looks up. He is a big man with a moustache and failing hair.
“You have twenty minutes.”
Ghost looks at his boss’s desk. A multitude of checks are laid neatly in front of the man.
“I suppose you want your check?” The boss is annoyed by the staring.
“If it’s not a problem.” Ghost is composed, trying not to reveal that’s the only reason why he came into work in the first place.
“Here.” His boss holds out a check. “You have twenty minutes to make it back.”
Ghosts grabs the check and runs out of the office to his right. He takes a left at Clinton and runs toward the C train, folding the check carefully so that both corners line up. He sticks the check in the back of his jeans as he picks up his pace.
Twenty minutes, he thinks, doing the math in his head, Fuck that.
His home is at least twelve minutes by subway across the East River to Jay Street, then a transfer to the F train to 2nd Avenue, and he still has to run about ten blocks to his apartment.
And besides, that’s not the reason I’m leaving, he thinks. Somebody has recognized me.
He sees an unchained bike resting on a stone wall beneath a huge rosette window and a sign that reads Church of St. Luke and St. Matthew. He grabs the bike, hops on, and races in the direction of his apartment.
The wind is cold on his bare arms and shoulders. His son could be in danger. He needs to wrap up loose ends. He has nowhere else to turn.
C h a p t e r 4 9
Ghost puts the key in his front door lock and turns.
“Don’t worry, it’s me,” Ghost says, teeth chattering, in a volume just loud enough for his son to hear. “Can you open the other lock for Daddy?”
A series of clicks reverberate through the hallway, and the door opens.
Ghost grabs the boy, flings him up into his arms. He wraps himself in his son, relishing the warmth and safety. They move down the hallway to the bedroom. Ghost sees the suitcase neatly packed.
“Good job,” he says.
Ghost flips through the suitcase, then opens the dresser drawers, pulls out underwear and socks, throws them into the luggage. He opens the bottom drawer, pulls out 10,000 dollars in stacks of 100’s, throws it in and closes it. He pulls an old corduroy coat from the closet and wrestles it onto his thawing body.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?”
“I need you to be a man today, okay? We’re leaving a little sooner than we planned.” Ghost knows it’s a half-truth. “Now, come with Daddy.”
Ghost grabs the boy’s suitcase and rushes to the living room. His son follows closely behind, still dressed in his “I Heart NY” pajamas.
Ghost stops at the computer table and opens the drawer. The jostle of the commotion wakes the computer from its sleep. The words Confess, I have the letter are still visible, taunting him. He feels a pressure that he’s never felt before, like a vice crushing his soul, his future, his son. He pulls out two plane tickets, takes one, leaves the second one in the drawer.
I can get an earlier flight at the airport, he thinks, shoving the ticket in his corduroy jacket.
Ghost grabs his son in one hand and the suitcase in the other and heads out of the apartment, pulling the door closed with his foot. They run down the stairs and out the front door.
He places the boy down on solid ground and places the suitcase in front of him. He hails a nearby taxi.
“Daddy, I’m scared.”
“Oh, mon cœur, all will be okay soon.”
The taxi pulls up. The passenger window is down.
“Where to?” asks the taxi driver.
Ghost and his son enter the cab.
“JFK!” he replies, as if his son’s life depended on it.
C h a p t e r 5 0
“Micah, I’d like you to meet the private investigator to whom you owe your life,” Shawn motions in the direction of the other man who had just arrived at Shawn’s home.
“Allen Pinchot,” the man says. “Glad to finally meet you.”
They are all seated on the back patio area of the Connellys’ brownstone in Cobble Hill. A nine-foot wall of horizontal teak slats stretches along the back of the outdoor space, with a smooth concrete floor surrounded by manicured grass. Micah sees an empty chair next to the detective.
“I can’t thank you enough.” Micah almost bows as he shakes Allen’s hand.
“Not a problem at all. It’s what we do.”
“Allen’s the one who found out about Jenna’s Wi-Fi,” Shawn explains as they all take their seats in wire-mesh chairs with light green oversize cushions. “Ultimately not our proudest moment, but I think it helped give us an edge.”
Micah isn’t sure what to say, so he remains silent.
“Thanks to both of you for rushing over here on a Saturday. Elaine Holcomb works fast, so we all need to plan our attack on this silly civil suit she’s concocted,” Shawn begins. “This is about the life insurance, plain and simple.”
“I don’t care about that,” Micah says. “Can’t we just give her the money?”
“Not so fast,” Shawn says, thinking about some of the proceeds from the life insurance paying his legal fees. And I’m about to be a father. “We have to fight it. It’s bullshit. This is going to be a long day, so let’s just hunker down, all of us.”
Haylee enters through the front door, gasping for breath. Shawn senses something is wrong and rushes through the open sliding glass doors toward her, frantic that something has happened to her or the baby. The others follow quickly behind.
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
“I saw him. At the car wash.” She sits down on the nearest chair she could find, which is the entry bench next to the door. “Ghost.”
“What?” Shawn says. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, baby, I’m okay.” She grabs his arm, gives him a curt glance. She doesn’t want him to ask about the pregnancy in front of the others. “But this Ghost guy. He works there! That’s where I remember him from. Last time I washed my car there, it was summer. And I remembered his tattoo because it was so strange. It had a bullet hole through it, which scared me. I remembered his look. But I didn’t put it together until today.” She gets out her phone. “There was an accident at the car wash and this man, this really pale black man got soaked and took off his jacket, and there it was.” She pulls up the photo of the man. “He saw me taking this picture, I’m sure of it.”
Shawn grabs the phone. The photo has a glare from the cracked windshield, but overall, it is clear and focused. When Shawn zooms in, he can see most of the tattoo, and the side of the man’s face. “Holy shit.”
Shawn pulls out his phone and begins searching for a number.
“What are you doing?” asks Allen Pinchot.
“Calling Detective Penance,” says Shawn. “If we nail this guy, the civil suit may drop before it even gets started.”
C h a p t e r 5 1
“Detective Bronson Penance’s office, this is Lilith McGuire, how can I help you?”
“Lily, this is Shawn Connelly. I represented Micah Br—”
“Yes, I know who you are, Mr. Connelly,” Lily says with an accidental snark. “Detective Penance took the weekend off, as you can imagine. But if there’s anything I can help you with, I’d be happy to.”
“My wife just found the Ghost guy that killed that young boy Frank, and most likely killed Lennox Holcomb. After she recognized him, he bolted quickly and you gotta find him. He works at Atlantic Car Wash, 800 Atlantic, in Brooklyn. And the phone number is 718-555
-0045.”
Lily writes down the information on a scrap piece of paper on Detective Penance’s desk.
“I’ll give him the message,” she says.
“Is your department going to follow through this time?” Shawn urges. “Please don’t let him get away.”
“We got this.” She matches his severe tone. “Thank you, Mr. Connelly.”
Lily hangs up the phone and looks at the piece of paper. After five seconds of thought, she takes the note, grabs her purse and leaves.
C h a p t e r 5 2
Lily McGuire stands in front of a Lower East Side apartment building, staring up at the fourth floor. She double-checks the address she had scribbled in the cab. The angry car wash owner had also given her a detailed description of his missing employee that matched everything she already knew about the illusive Ghost. Now she’s standing in front of his home, with both his name and his address literally in the palm of her hand.
Bastien Morrell
152 Avenue D, Building C, Unit C-412
So, Ghost’s real name is Bastien, she thinks. A beautiful name for a killer.
Several buildings of differing heights surround Building C, each in a taupey-brown brick with white windowpanes. The brick has been patched several times over the housing unit’s half-century existence with newer brick that does not match. The result is a cold, forgotten veneer hiding hundreds of forgotten stories.
What am I doing here? she wonders. She wants to prove something to herself, to her boss. She is armed, confident in her ability to take care of herself and wants to follow through, no matter the circumstances. She calls the precinct but has every intention of proceeding on her own.
“Unit 7-28. Approaching suspect at 152 Avenue D, number 412, requesting backup.”
“All units respond, officer at 152 Avenue D, number 412, requesting backup.”
“10-4. Unit 12-42 on our way.”
She enters the five-story building through a metal and glass grid-like entrance with a huge rectangular fluorescent lamp above the doorway. She walks up four flights of stairs. A foul stench, a rancid mixture of marijuana and cleaning supplies, wafts through her nostrils, causing her to cough out loud. The noise echoes as it bounces off the concrete walls. The sun squeezes through a tiny row of windows along each floor, and the lights above flicker as if emitting a warning to stay away.
She approaches the apartment door marked 412, and knocks. The door creaks open. She draws her gun, nudging the door open further.
“Mr. Morrell?” She opens the door even more. “I’m Detective Lily McGuire. I just need to talk with you a moment, if I can.”
No one answers. She creeps into the room, pointing the gun toward any blind spots, just as she was taught in training. She leaves the door open to let the intermittent light from the hallway shine through into the dark apartment.
She walks down the short hallway and checks the bedroom and closet, observing the open drawers and the indentations on the bed.
Somebody was in a hurry.
Confident she is alone, she puts her gun away.
Walking back through the living room, she notices a row of three framed photos, all at 45-degree angles, each spaced from the other with equidistant precision, all in the exact same frame: A beautiful blonde woman, probably Italian, holding a newborn baby in her arms; two men in foreign uniform in front of a military base, under a sign written in a language she didn’t recognize; a pale, snaggle-toothed toddler with curly reddish-brown hair, smiling against a light-gray studio backdrop.
She takes the bottom part of her sleeve and pulls it down over her hand, picking up the photo of Ghost’s son. She smiles. She places it back on the table, then moves to the kitchen. A pile of dirty dishes rests in the sink. Next to the messy kitchen is a small table with two place settings, each arranged as if an elegant dinner were about to be served. A bright yellow-and-black book titled “Home-Schooling for Dummies” rests on the chair just next to the table.
She turns around and walks to the desk next to the window. The computer is open but asleep. Again, she pulls her sleeve out to cover her hand and she clicks on one of the keys. It awakens.
Confess. I have the letter, she reads on the open Internet window.
She glances above the body of the email to see the address of the sender.
[email protected].
She moves the mouse to the “sent folder” and clicks. A bevy of emails sent to Frenchy228 appear, one after the other.
Just as she’s about to click on the first email, she hears footsteps climbing stairs echoing through the hallway outside. Lily moves the mouse over the top of the screen to put the computer to sleep. The screen does not fade. She stands up and walks out the door and into the hall. She peeks out over the stairwell just in time to see the wiry hair of the man she had come here to confront, making his way up the steps very quickly. Too quickly.
She goes back to the door, almost closes it and knocks on it, as if she’s just arrived.
“Mr. Morrell? Are you there?” She begins to enter again just as Ghost arrives at the door.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” He barges in, switching places with her in the process.
“Yes. Are you Mr. Morrell?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, I’m Lilith McGuire of the Seventh Precinct,” she says, flashing her badge. “I’m sorry to bother you. We were just doing some follow-up on a Mr. Lennox Holcomb and wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Lenny? Of course, come on in.” Ghost turns on the single ceiling light. “I’m just in and out today, I only have a few minutes.”
“Oh, this won’t take long. I really appreciate it.”
Lily enters and looks over at the computer. It is still glowing. She looks for Ghost and finds him in the kitchen, washing dishes in the sink.
“I’m sorry. We’re not used to guests,” he says, turning on the kitchen faucet.
She walks away from the sightline of the computer, so when Ghost looks at her, he will not see the evidence that she has already been in his apartment.
“We?” She plays dumb.
“Yes, my son and I live here. He’s at school right now.”
Lie, she thinks, remembering the yellow-and-black book.
“Oh? How old is he?”
“He’s ten.”
She looks at the computer, which has gone black. She exhales.
“Ten. That’s such a precocious age, isn’t it?”
She sees three bags of heroin on the bookcase. She recognizes the logo, walks over and picks one up with her sleeve-covered hand.
“Yes, it is,” Ghost says, chuckling. “Very much so.”
“And how about his mother?” She runs the bag along the edge of the bookcase.
Ghost doesn’t answer. He turns off the faucet and turns around to find Lily holding the bag of heroin with a ghost emblem on it. He drops a dishtowel in the sink with such force that it knocks over a small pile of plates. “Why did you come here, Ms. McGuire?”
Lily jumps, but continues to hold the bag of heroin. “Where is your son, Mr. Morrell?”
“I took him to the airport to fly him to my brother overseas.”
“Overseas?”
“It’s none of your business where I took my son, bitch.”
Lily moves her hand to her gun. A loud voice from her belt echoes through the room.
“12-42 for 7-28. Requesting 10-7. Repeat 10-7.”
Fuck, she thinks. They can’t find me. She realizes her mistake.
“Actually, sir, let’s calm down,” she says, turning down her radio. In the same motion, she clicks her call button three times, hoping dispatch will figure out she means Building C. She then reaches to make sure she has quick access to the gun if she needs it. “I only want to know about your relationship with Lennox Holcomb.”
Still dressed in damp clothes, Ghost tries to make himself look comfortable by picking up the dishtowel and wiping his hands. He gently places it on the counter.
“Ah, the saga of Bastien and Lennox.” He yanks a chair out from underneath the kitchen table and sits. He interlocks his hands and pounds them on the table. He takes a breath to calm himself down. “Well, Lenny was an addict. A whore of an addict. One of my best customers, if not the best. When he stopped using, hell, dealing and using, it kinda fucked me. I mean, I got a son to support.”
Armed with little knowledge of what may or may not be happening in this moment, Ghost begins to think through his responses. “I may have overreacted a bit, threatened him, scared him and his friends a little. It was a hard time for me. Shit. He threatened me back, told me he’d written a letter identifying me, saying if anything happened to him, he’d hidden the letter someplace secure, and it would lead everyone directly to me.”
“So when something did happen to him, why didn’t you run?”
“That’s where the saga takes an interesting turn. You see, I got clean. I mean, really clean. I got a whole year under my belt. No drugs, no dealing, no nothing. That’s when Lenny and I became friends.”
Lily laughs and plays with the bag, almost taunting Ghost to tell her the complete truth. With her other hand, she clicks her radio three times again.
“Yeah, I know. It looks bad. But I’m serious. I didn’t think anything, cuz Lenny was my man. He was there for me. And my son. Lenny knew I wanted to move back home. Even invited him to come stay with me and my family some time.” He pauses and looks up at the ceiling, as if transported somewhere else. He whispers, “Rue de Sylvere Bohn et Strada di Scogliere Blanches. Sempre ma amore. Sempre ma maison.”
Lily hears him and recognizes the word maison from Jenna’s testimony about the tattoo. Maybe he’s quoting what the tattoo says? She palms her jacket for a pen.
“I wanted to go back home,” Ghost continues. “Buy a place for me and my boy. Just the two of us. Lenny knew I needed the money. He’s the one who suggested I start dealing again. Make some quick cash. Told me I should brand this shit, make it seem better than it was.”
Naive Page 21
