by R.J. Ellory
‘Walt? You know Walt Freiberg?’
‘A little,’ Duchaunak said.
‘He didn’t want you here yesterday . . . and then when you went he called you an asshole cop.’
‘An asshole cop. . . that’s what he said? I’m not sure what one of those is, but hell, if that’s what Walt thinks then fair enough. Man has a right to an opinion.’
Harper didn’t reply. He wanted the man to go away.
‘So this is a real surprise for me, the fact that Edward Bernstein has a son.’ Duchaunak just looked at Harper for a few moments.
Harper wanted to tell Duchaunak that it had been a greater surprise for himself, but felt that such a comment would serve no purpose.
‘Did he speak?’ Duchaunak asked.
‘I think so.’
‘He said something?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Harper replied.
‘Did it seem like he said something?’
‘I think he told me to leave.’ Harper closed his eyes, ran his right hand through his hair. His hand stopped at the back of his neck and he appeared to massage the tense knot of muscles at the top of his spine. He wanted a drink, perhaps three, but he still felt no motivation to move.
‘To leave?’ Duchaunak asked.
‘I don’t know, Detective. I don’t know that he even spoke, to tell you the truth. It sounded like one word . . . one word from a dying man I’ve never met before, and I think I wanted it to be a real word, a word that had some meaning, a word that perhaps had some relevance to the fact that he’s about to die and I’m his son—’ Harper stopped and looked directly at Duchaunak. ‘For Christ’s sake, I don’t even know that I am his son. I’m going on the word of my crazy aunt and a guy called Walt Freiberg who I haven’t seen for the better part of thirty years.’
‘If he told you to leave . . . well, if he told you to leave, then I figure he gave you the best advice he could.’
Harper smiled and shook his head. ‘I only just arrived Detective.’
Duchaunak nodded. ‘Sure you did, sure you did. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s possibly the best advice you were ever given, regardless of who it came from.’
There was silence between them for a moment.
‘You look like him,’ Duchaunak said eventually.
‘So?’ Harper replied. ‘A lot of people look like a whole lot of other people, doesn’t mean they’re related.’
‘It wasn’t an accusation, Mr Harper.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Harper said. ‘This has been a difficult couple of days, still is difficult. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.’
‘Who told you about this?’
‘You mean who told me that he was here in the hospital?’
‘Yes, who told you?’
‘My aunt. My mother’s sister. She raised me after my mother died.’
‘She lives here in New York?’
‘Yes, over on Carmine Street off of Seventh.’
‘And you live where?’ Duchaunak asked.
Harper shook his head. ‘Miami. I’m a reporter for the Herald.’
‘Long time away from New York?’
‘Left here when I was nineteen. Went to Florida to get away from all of this.’
‘All of what?’
‘New York, everything it represented for me.’
‘The death of your mother, right?’
‘That, and my uncle’s suicide.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Yes,’ Harper said. ‘My aunt’s husband, name was Garrett Sawyer. He killed himself when I was twelve.’
‘Difficult childhood.’
Harper smiled. ‘Difficult life, Detective.’
‘You married?’
‘No. No wife, no kids, crappy job . . . and now this.’
‘And your relationship with Walter Freiberg?’
‘Relationship?’ Harper asked. ‘What relationship would that be?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Walt . . . Uncle Walt. He used to be around a little after Garrett died. He was a friend of the family so to speak.’
‘Involved with your aunt?’
Harper turned and looked at Duchaunak; he frowned, felt irritated. ‘Why the third degree? I didn’t have anything to do with the shooting.’
‘I know you didn’t, Mr Harper. I have a curious nature. Did you know Walt Freiberg and Edward Bernstein were business partners . . . have been for many years?’
‘I don’t know anything, Detective. I got a call from my aunt. She told me to come back to New York. When I got here she told me that a father I thought was dead was actually alive . . . well, nearly alive. She told me he’d been shot. I came here to see him yesterday and Walt Freiberg was here at the same time. I haven’t seen Walt for about twenty-five years. He was here when I arrived at the hospital, and then we left and had something to eat. I stayed in a hotel last night, and then when I got up I came back here. Now you show up and ask me all manner of questions like I know a great deal more about what’s going on than you do. I’m tired, stressed, confused, overwhelmed, the last thing I can deal with right now is the third degree from you.’
Duchaunak was silent for a time. He looked the other way down the corridor. When he turned back he looked exhausted, as overwhelmed as Harper felt. ‘I don’t mean to bust your balls, Mr Harper. I got a headache the size of Michigan and then some. I haven’t slept all night. I don’t know who you are, except that you might be Lenny . . . Edward Bernstein’s son. I don’t know much of anything at all to tell you the truth, probably as little as you. I just have to find out who shot your father, and anything that might lead me in the right direction is something I have to follow. That’s all.’ Duchaunak rose from the bench. He looked down at Harper. ‘I’m sorry for harassing you at a time like this, but you have to understand that this is my job—’
Harper raised his hand. He didn’t think he could tolerate any more words from anyone. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘No harm done. I’m going to stay here a while if it’s okay with you. I just need some time to figure all of this out.’
‘Sure thing,’ Duchaunak said. He held out his hand. Harper reached up and took it. ‘Take care, Mr Harper. Maybe we’ll speak again sometime.’
‘Maybe we will, Detective.’
Duchaunak started to walk away. He slowed, turned, and Harper looked up.
‘Still think you should go back home,’ Duchaunak said.
‘I know, you told me once already. You and Evelyn both.’
Duchaunak nodded, looked like he was going to say something else, but he merely shook his head.
Harper listened to the sound of Duchaunak’s shoes echoing down the corridor, could still hear him walking even when he turned left at the end.
Harper leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. He felt as if the world and all its troubles had settled on his shoulders.
Across the street, half a block down, Duchaunak and Faulkner seated in the car.
‘Didn’t see anything.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Nope, not a thing. Kid seemed wired up tight. Don’t think he has a clue who these people are.’
Faulkner put the lid on his styrofoam cup and slotted it in the cup-rest beside his seat. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine kicked into life.
‘Hang fire,’ Duchaunak said.
Faulkner killed the engine.
‘That’s her,’ Duchaunak said.
‘Where?’
‘Over there in the black Merc.’
Faulkner leaned forward and peered through the windscreen. ‘You sure?’
‘Sure as can be.’
‘She waiting for Harper?’
‘Fuck knows. Maybe she’s waiting for Freiberg.’
‘You’re sure it was the aunt who called Harper, not Walt?’
‘’S what the kid said. Said his aunt called him, told him to come back to New York, and it was only when he got here that she told him about Lenny. Said that Freiberg was here when
he came to the hospital yesterday, and when they were done visiting they went for something to eat and then he stayed overnight in a hotel.’
‘Wonder why he didn’t stay with his aunt.’
‘Christ only knows—’ Duchaunak started, and then ‘Lookee here . . . look who’s come to town.’
A second car, a midnight-blue sedan, pulled up behind the Merc. It drew to a stop, the driver’s door opened and Walt Freiberg stepped out.
Within a moment Cathy Hollander emerged from the Merc.
‘Told you it was her,’ Duchaunak said.
‘I’ll get you a Kewpie doll.’
Duchaunak and Faulkner watched as Walt Freiberg and Cathy Hollander exchanged a few words on the sidewalk, and then the pair of them crossed the street and started up the steps of St Vincent’s.
‘I want to know what the deal is with this, John Harper,’ Duchaunak said quietly. ‘Either he’s in this and he’s a really fucking good actor, or he’s walking around the edges of something he knows nothing about.’
‘And if it has anything to do with Marcus then there’s a good chance he won’t get back to Miami.’
Duchaunak nodded slowly, said nothing.
Faulkner started the engine a second time. ‘Precinct?’ he asked.
Duchaunak nodded. ‘Precinct.’
TEN
‘Cathy called me,’ Freiberg said, when he was five or six feet from where Harper sat on the bench. ‘She called me and told me that Frank Duchaunak was here.’
‘Walt,’ Harper said. He stood up and shook Freiberg’s hand. ‘Hi there. How are you?’
Freiberg placed his hand on Harper’s shoulder and sat him down. Freiberg sat on one side, Cathy Hollander on the other. ‘I’m fine John, just fine. Did he speak with you?’
‘Who?’
‘Duchaunak . . . the cop.’
Harper nodded. He was quiet for a moment. ‘He said something to me Uncle Walt.’
Freiberg nodded. ‘I know, John, you just told me.’
‘No, Edward, my father . . . he said something to me.’
Freiberg started to rise. ‘He’s awake? He’s conscious? Jesus, John, why didn’t you say so? Christ almighty, what the hell are we doing sat here?’
‘He’s not conscious any more, Uncle Walt. He came round for just a second or two, and I don’t know that he actually did say something, but it sounded like he was telling me to leave.’
‘To leave?’
‘That’s what it sounded like. Sounded like he said the word “leave”. That was all. I could have been mistaken, but—’ Harper exhaled deeply and shook his head. He looked at Cathy Hollander. She smiled sympathetically. ‘Hello, Miss Hollander.’
‘Hello, Mr Harper.’
‘You okay?’
‘As can be.’
‘Thanks for waiting for me.’
‘No problem, no problem at all.’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Freiberg said.
‘Walt?’
‘Yes, John?’
‘Who is Lenny?’
Freiberg smiled and frowned simultaneously. ‘Lenny? Who’s been talking about Lenny?’
‘Detective Duchaunak. He spoke of my father, and when he went to say his name he called him Lenny and then he corrected himself. Why did he call him Lenny?’
‘It’s nothing, John, just a nickname, like a joke kind of thing.’
‘A nickname? What does he have a nickname for?’
‘Your father, Edward, he is a . . . businessman, quite an influential and important businessman. He manages a lot of things, co-ordinates stuff, gets everybody working together. They call him Lenny after Leonard Bernstein, the composer, the music guy you know? Your father makes sure everyone’s playing the same tune . . . that’s why they call him Lenny. Lenny Bernstein. You get it?’
Harper nodded. ‘But why a police detective, Uncle Walt? Why would a police detective know him well enough to use his nickname?’
Freiberg laughed. ‘Enough questions, John, enough questions for now.’ He put his hand beneath Harper’s arm and helped him to his feet. ‘Let’s get out of here. We’ll tell whoever’s on the desk downstairs to have the doctor call us if something happens with your father. Let’s go have some lunch, okay? Let’s go somewhere real nice and have some lunch.’
Harper didn’t speak again. He walked down the corridor, Uncle Walt on one side, Cathy Hollander on the other. He felt as if he’d escaped an auto smash, a bad one, the kind where they close the road and the emergency services have to hose the blood off the hot-top. The kind where folks with kids and house payments and their whole lives to look forward to have just lost it all. Just like that – a fingersnap, a single heartbeat – and everything’s gone to hell. And he, John Harper – the one with nothing, the one with no-one at all to remember him – had somehow managed to survive.
‘Torchon of Foie Gras, lemongrass-scented Gulf shrimp with cilantro and mango, and then we’ll be having a black truffle cavatelli, grilled filet of beef and braised short rib, or turbot stuffed with Maine lobster with a ragout of corn, leeks and chanterelles in a caviar sauce.’ The maître d’ smiled effusively. ‘Finally there will be a selection of Artisanal cheese served with fig jam and raisin-walnut bread. And you know Bruce Spring-steen?’
Walt Freiberg smiled and said he did, not personally of course, but he had heard of him.
‘Well, Soozie Tyrell of the E Street Band will be performing live. There will be dancing until three a.m., and once your table is booked it’s yours for the night. That, Mr Freiberg, will be our New Year’s Eve extravaganza, and we would be honored to have you and your guests celebrate with us.’
Walt smiled. He reached out and took the man’s hand. ‘Anton, you are a gentleman, a true gentleman. I am sorry, I have absolutely no idea what we will be doing on New Year’s Eve, but I can guarantee that if I find myself without arrangements I will be here in a flash.’
‘Of course, Mr Freiberg, of course. You are here for luncheon?’
‘Yes, Anton, just the three of us.’
‘This way, Mr Freiberg,’ Anton said, and circumvented the tables of the Tribeca Grill on Greenwich Street as if he was performing a graceful pas-de-deux .
Walt Freiberg, John Harper and Cathy Hollander were seated within moments, and Anton glided away to despatch their waiter.
‘This,’ Walt said as he leaned closer to Harper, ‘is the Tribeca Film Center. This is Bobby De Niro’s place. Here you got Tribeca Film and Miramax, and if you sit here long enough you get to see all kinds of people. One time I seen Bill Murray here, another time Christopher Walken. Hell of a place, you know? Won all sorts of awards. I love to come here.’ Walt grinned. He reached out, closed his hand over Harper’s and squeezed it firmly. ‘Me and your father, we love to come and eat here. They got some great food . . . really great food. Right, Cathy?’
Cathy smiled. She shifted a few inches closer to Harper. Once again he felt the pressure and warmth of her thigh against his own, sensed the friction created by the taut silk of her stocking against his jeans. Seemed that whenever she appeared the distress and unreality of his situation was somehow diminished.
The waiter came. He greeted Walt as if they were long-lost. Walt didn’t want to see the menu.
‘Go with my choices, okay boys and girls?’ he asked.
Cathy smiled. Harper merely grunted. Food was the last thing on his mind.
‘Okay,’ Walt said. ‘We’ll go with a plate . . . you have a plate today?’
‘Indeed Mr Freiberg. We have a veal and foie gras ballotine, serrano ham and chicken liver mousse.’
‘Good. On the side we’ll have butternut squash and apple mousse and some sautéed chanterelles.’
The waiter nodded, smiled, scribbled furiously.
‘We can be medieval and share entrees,’ Walt said. He looked up at the waiter. ‘Don’t tell Anton I said that, eh?’ Walt laughed. The waiter laughed too. Harper stared at the huge mahogany bar that centered the room.
‘S
o, we’ll go with the garganelli pasta, Atlantic salmon . . . that comes with the bacon and onion stew, right?’
‘It does, Mr Freiberg, yes.’
‘Good, we go with that, and we’ll have the sea scallops as well.’
‘Very good, Mr Freiberg – and to drink?’
Walt glanced first at Cathy Hollander and then at Harper.
‘You easy?’ he asked.
‘Whatever you like, Walt,’ Cathy replied.
‘Châteauneuf du Pape, an early one . . . whatever you recommend.’
‘Of course Mr Freiberg . . . and I must say it is a pleasure having you here again. Might I ask as to the whereabouts of Mr Bernstein?’ The waiter glanced at Harper. Harper didn’t see it, but Walt Freiberg was on it like flypaper.
‘You see the resemblance, yes?’ he asked the waiter.
The waiter smiled. ‘I couldn’t help it, Mr Freiberg. I did, of course I did, but I didn’t wish to be rude.’
‘This,’ Walt Freiberg said proudly, ‘is Mr Bernstein’s son, John.’
The waiter nodded deferentially. ‘A pleasure sir, a great pleasure.’
Harper looked up at him with a blank expression on his face.
‘And Mr Bernstein himself?’
Walt shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Bernstein has been taken ill.’
‘Oh my goodness. Not too serious I trust?’
Freiberg shook his head. ‘Not too serious, no.’
The waiter seemed relieved. ‘I can speak for everyone here in wishing him a very rapid recovery.’
‘Thank you,’ Walt said. ‘That is most kind.’
‘I shall collect your wine.’
The waiter smiled at each of them in turn, and then he hurried away.
‘So you had a run-in with Frank Duchaunak?’ Walt Freiberg asked Harper.
Harper perceived a thought at the back of his mind, something he’d been trying to remember since Walt had appeared at St Vincent’s. ‘A run-in? I wouldn’t say I had a run-in. He asked me a few questions, that was all.’
‘Questions? Questions about what?’
Harper shrugged. ‘Nothing specific . . . how long I’d been away from New York, where I was living. Nothing important.’
‘And he said nothing about your father? About his interest in him?’
