by R.J. Ellory
‘Lock ’n’ load, motherfuckers,’ Faulkner said.
Duchaunak looked up. ‘You got something?’
‘Two assaults. June eleventh 1956, and October twenty-second 1974. A DUI in April ’68. Possession of an unlicensed weapon—’
‘He was part of it, wasn’t he?’ Duchaunak said, suddenly interested, leaning forward and looking across at the computer screen. ‘She said he was buddies with Ray Dietz for a while. She mentioned Victor Klein, Sol Neumann. She sure as hell doesn’t forget a great deal.’
‘Maybe Garrett Sawyer was with them,’ Faulkner said, ‘at least until August of 1980.’
‘He ever do time?’
Faulkner shook his head. ‘No. Arrested a total of eleven times, charged five times, bound over, a couple of arraignments, but nothing ever came of them.’
‘And then something happens and he kills himself.’
‘Right.’
‘Harper found him you know?’
Faulkner turned away from the screen and faced Duchaunak.
‘Twelve-year-old kid, and he finds his uncle dead in the house.’
‘He tell you that?’
Duchaunak shook his head. ‘No, but I figure that’s what happened.’
‘And the sister, Harper’s mother, was a suicide as well?’
Duchaunak shrugged. ‘Seems that way but I don’t know, Don, I really don’t know.’ He turned and looked towards the window. ‘Lenny Bernstein gets shot, a random thing by all accounts, and then his son shows up, a son no-one knew he had. Everything changes all of a sudden. There’s a dead mother, a dead uncle, an aunt who raised the son . . . I don’t know what to make of it.’
‘Maybe nothing,’ Faulkner replied. ‘Maybe there isn’t anything to make.’
Duchaunak smiled. He reached up and started massaging his temples. ‘With these people . . . with these people there’s always something to make.’
‘So what d’you want me to do?’
‘Pull Garrett Sawyer’s file. Pull the reports on his suicide, Anne Harper’s as well. I want to take a look at them in a little more detail.’ Duchaunak rose from his chair.
‘And you?’
‘Going to go back to St Vincent’s, see if Lenny’s going to make it.’
‘You understand what happens if he dies, right?’
Duchaunak raised his eyebrows.
‘You’re going to have Ben Marcus to contend with.’
Duchaunak reached for his overcoat. ‘One thing at a time. I’m going to see Lenny. I’ll tell him how much we all miss him, and when he comes out we’re going to throw a little party. We’ll have finger food, those little pastry things with shrimp and mayonnaise inside them, shit like that.’
‘No pâté,’ Faulkner said. ‘I fucking hate pâté.’ He lifted the receiver on his desk, waved Duchaunak out of the office as he dialled Archives.
Duchaunak went quietly, disappeared from the building. He took the car and drove towards St Vincent’s, thought once more about Marilyn Monroe and how it was all such a stupid, tragic waste.
NINETEEN
‘Still here,’ Harper said. ‘Thought I should at least call and let you know that I was here and that I was staying a little while.’
‘Very fucking decent of you,’ Harry Ivens replied.
‘Everything’s okay there?’
‘No John . . . we’re all behaving like we’re seven or eight years old, and while you’re away we’ve been running around the place eating donuts and drawing on the walls with red crayolas. Someone even wrote a bad word on the paintwork near the elevator.’
Harper smiled. ‘Business as usual then.’
‘So what’s the deal?’
‘My father got shot.’
‘You what?’
‘My father . . . he got shot in a liquor store robbery. He’s in the hospital, St Vincent’s, and there’s a very good possibility he isn’t going to make it.’
‘Jesus Mary, mother of God, John Harper! What the fu—’
‘It’s okay Harry, it’s okay.’
‘What the hell is going on? I didn’t think your father was still alive—’
‘Neither did I, Harry, neither did I.’
‘Christ, John, how the hell do you even begin to cope with something like that?’
Harper smiled to himself. He felt awkward, and yet at the same time singularly detached from whatever he was supposed to feel. There was no context, no anchor, no point of reference. This was a once-in-a-lifetime, once-in-a-million kind of deal. ‘I don’t think you do cope with it, Harry,’ he said. ‘I think you do what I’m doing now.’
‘Which is?’
‘Waiting to see if he dies.’
‘Goddamnit, John, I don’t know what to say.’
‘You don’t have to say anything. I just figured I should call you and let you know why my aunt was upset—’
‘I should think she was.’
‘And to let you know that I’ll be back in the next few days. I have to see what happens, you know.’
‘Sure as shit you do. Jesus, I can’t keep my fucking head on. You do whatever you have to do, take what time you need. Things’ll be fine here . . . hell, with what you’ve got to deal with, what happens here isn’t exactly fucking relevant is it?’
‘I’ll be in touch, Harry. Say “Hi” to everyone for me.’
‘I will,’ Harry Ivens said. ‘I will . . . take care, John, okay? And my sympathies to your father. Jesus, I can’t believe this, I just can’t believe this.’
‘I’ll call you soon, Harry,’ Harper said, and hung up. He backed out of the phone booth in the hospital foyer and turned to see Cathy Hollander standing near the front entrance, talking on her cellphone.
As he reached her she finished the call.
‘Everything okay?’ she asked.
Harper nodded. ‘You?’
‘I have to go, I have to do something for Walt. Can you get a cab or something?’
Harper nodded. ‘Sure I can.’
She stepped forward, reached out her hand and touched the side of his face. ‘You’re going to be okay?’
Harper felt a rush of electricity. He wanted to close his eyes, close them just for a moment and be aware of nothing but the touch of her hand on his face. He smiled. ‘Sure I’m going to be okay. You go, do whatever. I’ll be fine. You know where I am.’
‘You’ll go back to the hotel after?’
‘I should think so,’ Harper replied.
She lowered her hand. ‘I’ll call you . . . maybe we could have some dinner later.’
‘Yes, I’d like that. I’d really like to do that.’
She turned, started walking.
‘Cathy?’
She turned back.
‘I . . .’ He paused, cleared his throat. He took a step towards her, reached out and took her hand. She didn’t resist him, didn’t even look awkward. ‘Hell, I don’t know if there’s something we—’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t say anything,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later and we’ll go have some dinner, okay?’
Harper nodded, released her hand. She smiled once more and then turned to walk away. Harper watched her go. There was a warmth and humanity that was not at first evident in her manner, something that stretched his patience, made him feel that if he waited for something to happen it never would. Here was an opportunity; he had to seize it or watch it slip through his fingers. He wondered if there was any chance of something with this woman, and if something happened would Walt let him take her away, back to Miami. He could not shake the memory of the first moment he’d really seen her, there in the back of the car as he’d left St Vincent’s the first night. The thought that she was the one. Cathy Hollander.
He breathed deeply, slowly; felt the tension within him. He watched Cathy until she disappeared, and then walked to the reception desk, gave his name, said he was there to see Edward Bernstein.
‘And your relationship to the patient, sir?’ the girl asked. Her
name was Clare Whitman. Nancy Cooper was nowhere to be seen.
‘I am his son,’ John Harper said, and even as he said it he felt it.
‘His son?’ Clare Whitman asked, aware that their surnames were different.
‘My parents weren’t married,’ Harper explained.
Clare looked awkward, momentarily embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, sir, you understand we have to be somewhat—’
Harper smiled. It was a good smile, a winning smile. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s not a problem. He really is my father.’
She smiled back. ‘Go on up sir.’
Harper turned left, took the stairs, walking with a sense of purpose in his English shoes and tailored suit. He glanced at the two thousand-dollar watch on his wrist. Figured he was owed it, that much at least, for all the years he’d been left to deal with Evelyn, with Garrett’s death, with the Carmine Street house and the demons within. Hadn’t such things been the very reason he’d left New York? Of course they had. There was the question of why Walt was doing these things, why he was spending money, buying clothes. What had Walt said? A sense of nostalgia, a recompense for failing to look after Harper? Bullshit. Walt Freiberg had a vested interest, an ulterior motive. Walt Freiberg was never nostalgic, or guilty – or stupid.
As he turned onto the second floor risers he asked himself if he hadn’t been destined to stay all along. Perhaps Evelyn had been right: Born in New York John Harper . . . once you’re born in New York there’s nowhere else that can be called home. You might have run away but everything you ever were is here.
But she’d been the first one to tell him to leave. First Evelyn, then Duchaunak, then his own father. Why did they want him out of New York? Was Duchaunak planning to gain something from Edward Bernstein’s shooting? Was he in some way involved with Freiberg? Harper wondered if Freiberg’s insistence that he come to New York somehow prevented Duchaunak from accomplishing his own ends. Was Duchaunak responsible for the shooting of Edward Bernstein?
A feeling of apprehension invaded Harper as he reached the third floor. He wished Cathy Hollander had been with him. He opened the door at the top of the well and walked through.
TWENTY
As was customary at such meetings, neither Ben Marcus nor Walt Freiberg entered the Metropolitan Cafe first. Both Marcus and Freiberg, driven by Sol Neumann and Joe Koenig respectively, came to a halt more than a block away. Words were shared by cellphone, and then Marcus and Freiberg exited their vehicles and walked down together.
Marcus was the first to speak, and only once they were seated in the cafe, once coffee had been ordered.
‘My respects to Lenny,’ Marcus said. ‘This is a bad thing that has happened.’
Freiberg shook his head. ‘Lenny Bernstein is tough. He’ll come through this.’
‘But for now he is out of the picture.’
‘He is, but the picture is the same from where I stand.’
Marcus nodded, sipped his coffee. ‘We had a meeting, me and my people, hence the call. I wanted to discuss our options Walt.’
‘It’s very simple. We carry through with the thing that Lenny proposed, or we call it quits and walk away.’
‘And if Lenny dies?’
Freiberg smiled, glanced towards the window. ‘How long have we known each other Ben?’
Marcus shrugged.
‘You ever known me to be on the back step?’
‘You have contingency plans.’
Freiberg turned his mouth down at the corners. ‘Whatever,’ he said nonchalantly.
‘So what’s the deal with the guy from Miami?’
Freiberg looked puzzled. ‘What guy would that be, Ben?’
Marcus smiled. ‘Ah, come on, don’t piss down my back and tell me it’s raining. I hear word that you got Lenny’s son up here. Tell me I’m wrong.’
‘Seems to me telling Ben Marcus he was wrong wouldn’t be a smart idea.’
‘So it is Lenny’s son?’
‘You see what you see, Ben—’
Marcus was silent for a moment. He leaned forward then, more intent. ‘So he has come up here to clean the slate for what happened to his father?’
‘He has come because he wants to be near his father at such a time,’ Freiberg replied.
‘And he’s brought his own people?’
‘Sonny?’ Freiberg shook his head. ‘I’m not one to go asking questions about such things, if you know what I mean.’
‘He has a crew, right? This son of Lenny’s, he’s come up here to make things right after his father’s shooting—’
Freiberg raised his hand. ‘Enough already . . . enough questions. This is real simple here, real simple. There aren’t any fingers being pointed, nothing like that. We don’t know if someone put a hit on Lenny, or if it was merely a bad case of wrong place at the wrong time. Sonny Bernstein came up here to be with him, to see his interests were taken care of. Maybe he’ll ask some questions, maybe he’ll want to dig around and see what he can find. I don’t know. I’m not asking. Comes down to it, Lenny’s going to be away for a little while. He’s doing okay, and it seems there’s a chance he’ll make it, but before this thing happened you and him were talking business, looking at the idea of doing some work together before Lenny went into retirement.’
‘And you want to keep such an option open?’
Freiberg smiled. ‘I’m not a man to turn down an opportunity . . . a mutually beneficial opportunity.’
Marcus leaned back in his chair. ‘I said earlier that I had a meeting with my people. We took a vote.’
‘A vote? That’s very democratic of you, Ben.’
‘We took a vote on this . . . whether we should go ahead with this proposal of Lenny’s, or if we should pack up camp and move out.’
‘And?’
‘My people want the proposal.’
Freiberg nodded, smiled. ‘So we go ahead Ben. That’s what you’re saying, right?’
‘That’s what you want to do?’
‘Sure, whatever’s best for business, Ben, whatever’s best for business.’
‘And you have Lenny’s authority on this, right?’ Marcus asked. ‘Say he comes through this . . . he isn’t going to take this as some kind of bad blood because I made a deal with you?’
‘You’ll deal with Sonny Bernstein,’ Walt Freiberg said. ‘That’s what he’s here for, Ben . . . to make sure that his father’s position isn’t taken advantage of while he’s unwell. He wants what his father wanted, and he has whatever authority is needed to finalize a deal with you.’
‘And if something goes wrong, like something happens to Lenny’s son, then you call his people in Miami and then we have a fucking war on our hands, right?’
Freiberg closed his hand over Marcus’s. ‘No-one wants a war Ben, least of all you and me.’
‘So that’s where we stand.’
‘That’s where we stand, Ben. At the necessary time, if Lenny is well enough to speak, then you will have his word on this agreement regarding the territories. If Lenny dies, or he is still too unwell to meet with you, then you will have the word of his son.’
‘Good enough,’ Marcus said.
‘And you can let the word out, tell whoever you like, if something does happen with Lenny’s son then it isn’t going to be me they’re dealing with—’
‘I got the message, Walt, I got the message. Last thing in the world I want is a bunch of crazy Miami cokeheads and psychos running all over New York.’ He laughed. ‘So we have a thing?’
‘We have a thing,’ Freiberg replied.
‘Next meeting we bring our sites and layouts. I have some people working on some ideas.’
‘How many people do I need?’ Freiberg asked.
‘Including yourself, I’d say you need a crew of eight.’
‘And you, Ben? You going to be joining the party on this one?’
Marcus laughed. ‘Me? Hell, no. I’m like Lenny . . . find the money, pay everyone, sort out the details, the logistics. I’m too ol
d to be running around with a semi-automatic.’
‘You got who you need?’
Marcus nodded. ‘I got some good people, people you know. Ray Dietz, Albert Reiff, Victor Klein . . . the usual crew.’
‘So, I’ll call you . . . we set up a meeting. Choose some place outside the immediate territories. We’ll go down there and start working out the details.’
‘Good enough, Walt, good enough.’
‘You got a date in mind?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘Seems to me we might as well go with Lenny’s idea.’
‘Christmas Eve?’
‘You have a problem with that?’
Freiberg shook his head. ‘I don’t have a problem with that, Ben.’
‘Then Christmas Eve it is.’
Freiberg rose, extended his hand. They shook – he and Ben Marcus.
‘So, until next time,’ Marcus said. ‘You take care, Walter.’
‘I will, Ben, I will.’
Freiberg gathered up his coat and made his way out of the Metropolitan Cafe.
Ben Marcus watched him go, and then reached into his pocket for his cellphone. ‘Make some calls . . . I need you to speak to whoever. Get some details about this Miami character. Get whatever information you can on him. Find out what kind of business he’s in down there, what kind of weight he carries, okay?’
Marcus paused. ‘You do whatever you have to . . . and call Ray Dietz, find out where he’s at on McCaffrey. This boy has to be found. Use whatever contacts you have. Don’t care how big New York is, he can’t hide for ever. Get him found, okay?’
Marcus nodded. ‘For sure. Speak later.’ The conversation ended, he called Neumann, told him to drive the car down to the Metropolitan and pick him up. He returned the cellphone to his jacket pocket and rose from his chair.
He pulled his overcoat around his shoulders and left the café.
TWENTY-ONE
Four and a half milligrams percent barbiturates, eight milligrams percent chloral hydrate. It took something in the region of thirty-five Nembutal to reach a blood level of four and a half milligrams. To get eight milligrams chloral hydrate someone would have to swallow eighteen or nineteen tablets. Such percentages indicated that she must have taken approximately fifty-five tablets. That didn’t include the thirteen milligrams percent pentobarbital found in the liver. That would have taken maybe seventeen more pills. That totalled something in the region of seventy-two tablets. There was no glass, no cup, nothing such as that in the room. Door was locked from inside. Surely no-one could take seventy-two tablets of anything without a drink to wash it down? And not one case – not one out of the many, many thousands of acute fatal barbiturate poisonings on file – had ever revealed a complete absence of residue in the digestive tract. In this case there had been no trace, no capsule residue, no refractile crystals, nothing. And another thing: the amount of pills taken was sufficient to kill between nine and twenty people.
