by James Tucker
Carefully he slid the copies back into the envelope. Later tonight, after everything else he needed and wanted to do, he’d study them. He’d try to discover if they held any secrets. He believed they might, if he could use them to reach back to Nazi Germany.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Buddy walked through the lobby of the Carlyle Residences and pressed the button for the elevator. He had butterflies in his stomach, just as he had when he met Mei for the first time. He’d come up this elevator to interview her during his investigation of the Death Clock Murders. One of her close friends, Mayor Blenheim’s sister, had been a victim. Not an auspicious beginning.
But a few days later she’d agreed to meet him at a jazz club in the Village, the one with no sign above the door. It was near the Vanguard but not famous—and that was the point. The walls and floors, even the tables, were dirty, and the lighting was dim but the music was good. To Buddy, that was all that mattered.
They’d heard a quartet play Miles Davis and Coltrane, and then mix in some new stuff. Buddy didn’t care much for the new but liked the old. Davis’s “Flamenco Sketches.” Soulful, lonely music that often eased the pain of too many late nights working and no woman to come home to. The white-haired guy at the piano got the opening piano chords just right—almost tentative, not too loud. Then the stronger but more melancholy trumpet had cleared away the voices of the club, bringing focus to the music. He’d watched the trumpet player, a thin Hispanic man in his fifties, who closed his eyes and swayed slightly to the music. It had felt good, hearing the sound. And hearing it with Mei. He’d thought she was too beautiful to be there with him. That maybe he’d made a mistake asking her anywhere at all. Yet between numbers they’d talked easily. Twice she’d put a hand on his forearm. And after the first set she’d asked about his interest in music, not to be polite but because she was interested.
He’d paused for moment to look at the blue light over the now-empty stage, at the other patrons talking and drinking and getting up or sitting down. Then he’d told her of his childhood and teenage years as a concert pianist. He’d confessed to his failure at Carnegie Hall, to giving up. This wasn’t a story of victory that a man would usually tell on a first date, yet he’d told it anyway. Instead of seeming put off, she’d grown more interested.
“Does it help you?” she’d asked. “Your background as a pianist?”
He wasn’t sure he’d heard right. This wasn’t a question he’d ever gotten before, but it was one he’d considered many times. He said, “You mean, has being a pianist helped me be a better detective?”
“Exactly,” she said, leaning in to hear him better, to be closer. “Most detectives don’t have your background. They didn’t go to Juilliard.”
“My background is weird,” he admitted, “but I think it’s helped me. I know it has. The hours, the practice, the attention to detail—in the case of music, the attention to every note and phrase and melody and counterpoint. Now I try to see everything. To notice everything. Back then I worked to figure out what the composer was trying to hear, trying to make me play. Now it’s figuring out what the victims are telling me. Not like they’re ghosts or anything,” he’d said quickly, and shrugged.
Although he thought briefly of Lauren.
Mei said, “You must work long hours.”
He sat up a little straighter. “Yeah, I do. And”—here he held up a hand—“there’s one other thing that’s the key to being a good pianist and a good detective.”
“What’s that?”
“Obsession,” he said. “Relentlessness.”
She stared at him and nodded slowly.
Realizing his mistake, he said, “But I’m not obsessed about women. Just about work.”
“You don’t want me to think you’re a nutcase?”
“That’s right.”
She only laughed. And then moved even closer to him, kissing his cheek.
The elevator chimed, the door opened, and he walked into her—their—foyer.
At the sound of the chime, Ben ran along the hallway toward him, his bright eyes focusing on Buddy, his face lighting up with a smile. And then Ben stopped abruptly.
“Hello,” he said, suddenly shy and uncertain.
“Come here!” Buddy said, getting down on his knees and extending his arms. “Give me a hug.”
Ben ran toward him and fit himself within Buddy’s arms, pressing his face against Buddy’s neck. Buddy squeezed him tightly.
The boy took comfort and then loosened his grip. They separated.
Buddy looked him in the eye. “You all right?”
Ben considered this for a moment. He stared at his feet and said, “If I can’t have my mom and dad and Ellen-Marie, I want you and Mei to be my family.”
Buddy didn’t know how to go forward, whether to turn, or if they could go backward. He was stuck. Looking up as if for help, he saw Mei.
She was standing in the hallway, still in her work clothes. The black silk dress with raspberry-colored designs and high heels made her seem very dressed up, but she held two red oven mitts in her right hand. Tilting her head, she waited to see what he’d say to Ben.
He felt his face warm, but he didn’t smile or joke or shrug off the moment. He looked at Ben and touched his shoulder. “We’ll find a way for you to be safe,” he said. “We’ll find a way for you to be happy. I don’t know exactly how it will happen, but it will happen. Do you trust me?”
Ben remained motionless for a long moment, and then he nodded.
Buddy stood and said, “Good. Now, I need to ask Mei a question.”
Mei walked into the foyer, closer to him.
After unbuttoning his coat, he slipped his arms free of it and sent it in a short arc over to the back of a chair in the living room. Then he put his right hand in the left breast pocket of his suit coat. As he removed his hand and the box he’d hidden there, he got down on one knee, hoping he wouldn’t topple over.
Landing solidly, he held out the small box trimmed in black velvet. He looked up at Mei. She’d dropped the oven mitts. Her mouth was open in surprise.
He said, “Mei, I love you more than anything on earth. Will you marry me?”
He heard Ben gasp, but he kept his eyes on Mei.
Her hand dropped from her mouth to her chest. She breathed quickly. Tears ran down her cheeks.
For a moment he feared he’d done the wrong thing. That he shouldn’t have asked.
But he held aloft the small velvet-lined box, waiting for her answer.
Ben stood beside him, his head about the level of Buddy’s. He blurted out, “Mei, what are you going to do?”
“Yes!” she cried, looking at one and then the other of them. “Of course! Yes! ”
Ben clapped excitedly.
Mei took a step closer to Buddy. She leaned over and reached for the box. “May I?”
“It’s yours,” Buddy said.
She took it in her slender hands. Holding her breath, she opened it.
And smiled.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
When Ben had gone to bed, Buddy and Mei walked into the master bedroom and closed the door.
Buddy took off his tie. He was thrilled that Mei had accepted him, but more than anything he felt relief. She was his, forever.
Smiling at him, she said, “I’m so happy, so glad you proposed.”
He grinned. “I’m relieved you said yes.”
“You knew I would.”
“I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure.”
“Well, you should have been sure.” She closed the blind, blotting out the lights of the city. “I’m surprised by how happy it made Ben. He’s really a wonderful boy, great to have around.”
Buddy didn’t react.
“What about . . . ,” she began. Her face flushed as she turned away.
This was another hint he’d ignore. Ben had asked outright. He’d tried not to consider it, and he’d argued with Ward. He shook his head, exhaled. “One thing at a time, okay?”
As they were changing, she said, “Did I tell you?”
Buddy piled up three pillows and climbed into bed. He got comfortable and said, “Tell me what?”
She’d gone into the closet and come out wearing cream-colored sheer satin panties and a matching camisole. He could see her nipples and through her panties a tidy patch of dark hair.
She said, “That I was thinking about you?”
“Just now?”
“When I was away in Greenwich.”
He said, “It was only for a couple of nights.”
She stood by the foot of the bed and faced him. “So you didn’t think about me?”
“Sure I did.” But he’d replied too quickly, automatically.
She shook her head. “That isn’t want I meant.” She went over to the bedroom door and pushed the button to set the lock. Then she returned to the middle of the room.
Now he understood what she meant.
He watched her take the narrow straps of the camisole in her fingers and lift it over her head, revealing her lovely firm breasts. Even in the low golden light of the bedside lamp, he could see her erect nipples. Then she pushed her panties down to her ankles and stood straight, hands on her hips.
In that moment he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman.
Very softly she asked, “Are you thinking about me now?”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The solitary figure crouched by the parapet of Time Warner Center. He looked north over the city at the lights bordering Central Park, his feet planted firmly on the roof. He needed to keep his center of gravity low, as the sheer force of the wind at the skyscraper’s crown could easily knock him over, if he weren’t careful.
But he was careful. He wouldn’t have come this far without expertise.
He huddled between two enormous ventilation fans as shelter from the constant winds and from observers.
Two hours before dusk and a mile away, he’d climbed into a commercial laundry truck that jostled through the Midtown streets and pulled into the building’s service bay. As the truck had backed up to the loading dock, he rolled up the cargo door, jumped onto the edge of the dock, and walked a short distance to the service elevator. He wore a uniform from the laundry company, dark makeup, sunglasses, and a Yankees cap.
Using a wire he’d brought, he tricked the fire-suppression system into thinking the door from the fire stairs to the roof remained closed even when he’d opened it. Most condo owners in the tower would be safe, but not Carl and his family.
They were rich and lived in the penthouse. The top floor.
With two skylights.
He’d stood on the roof three times before. He’d used the laundry truck four times. While the family had been out for the day, he’d talked a maid into allowing him into the apartment. He knew the layout of every room.
He was careful and methodical.
But would all the planning and practice make the actual event dull?
Never.
He saw himself as a great Olympian whose years of anonymous effort were leading to surging triumph. Since he began this work to redress old grievances, he’d made only one mistake: the boy had survived. But he’d remedy that mistake.
And soon.
He checked his watch.
Chapter Sixty
Ariel Brook yawned as she sat on a barstool in her family’s kitchen. Her mother and father were standing nearby, drinking wine and discussing a ski vacation over the upcoming spring break. Her brother, John, was watching ESPN from a lounge chair in the great room.
“I’d like to bring a guest,” John called over to them.
Ariel turned to him. “You have a girlfriend?”
“Mind your own business,” he told her.
Ariel smiled. She looked at her mother and father.
Her mother shook her head and said, “Best not to fight over it. You can bring a friend, too, if you’d like.”
“A boy?” Ariel asked.
Her father said, “No. Not a boy.”
“But John can bring a girl.”
“John’s older.”
Ariel flushed hot. She’d no intention of bringing a boy, but she didn’t want to be treated differently than her brother. She said, “That’s not fair.”
“When you’re John’s age, you can bring a boy,” her mother said.
Ariel slipped off the stool and marched out of the kitchen and into the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
“Good night!” her father called after her.
She didn’t reply, just continued into her bedroom and locked the door behind her. How annoying all of them were. And how unfair!
After changing into her pajamas, she padded into her private bathroom and brushed her teeth. Then she pulled down the blinds—she’d seen the spectacular view from her windows so often she no longer noticed it—and climbed into bed.
After setting her glasses on the night table, she lay on her back. Holding up her phone, she pressed the Netflix icon and began watching an episode of Cupcake Wars.
But she was too tired to learn who won. She muted the phone and set it facedown on her night table. Then she lay back, pulled the down comforter up to her chin, and sighed once. As she fell asleep, she thought she heard footsteps on the roof above her. She imagined the sound to be not one but hundreds of pigeons. The birds waddled about, pecking at the roof for seeds and other food, and finding none, rose all at once in a flock that wheeled away over the Hudson River and up into the black sky.
Chapter Sixty-One
In the night Buddy heard a scream.
He sat up. Mei woke.
She said, “What is it?”
Another cry.
She recognized it. He didn’t. Not right away.
She whispered, “It’s Ben. Another nightmare.” She pushed down the duvet and swung her legs out of the bed.
Buddy touched her back. “I’ve got it. You should stay here.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
Buddy got out of bed and, in the dark, put on his bathrobe. He went out into the hallway and the few paces to Ben’s door. He entered the smaller bedroom quickly, sat on the side of the mattress, and put his large hand on Ben’s chest.
The boy was breathing rapidly. His body was rigid. His legs jerked as if he were trying to run.
Buddy saw the outline of Ben’s face, just a little darker than the white of the pillow. Ben stirred under his touch.
“Ben,” he said. “Ben, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”
Ben was still.
“Ben?” he repeated. “Are you okay?”
The breathing halted. In one motion Ben sat up and put his arms around Buddy. He held on tightly, pushing his face into Buddy’s chest. Yet he said nothing. He whimpered once and held on. For several minutes.
At last Buddy said, “It’s all right. Just a bad dream. I have them all the time. Usually they’re about . . .” He stopped. He wouldn’t tell Ben about his own nightmares. Instead he offered, “Why don’t I grab the checkerboard and we can turn on the light and play a few games? Would that be okay?”
Ben nodded against him.
Buddy gently disengaged and went out to the living room. Under the bar in the corner of the room, he found the checkerboard and pieces and carried them back to Ben’s room.
But Ben was lying on his side, the covers pulled up around him. Buddy approached the bed and stood there, watching the portion of the boy’s head that wasn’t under the duvet. Ben was sleeping peacefully, though Buddy didn’t know for how long. He listened to Ben’s regular breathing and stepped back toward the chest of drawer
s. He set the checkerboard on the chest and returned to the side of the bed. The room was pitch black. The blinds were drawn snugly against the windows, and either there wasn’t a moon or it was hidden behind thick clouds. He could barely see his own arm. And yet Ben had known he was there and been comforted.
As he stood vigil, he realized he’d been thinking too much about himself and not about what he could give Ben. He thought maybe he did have things to give. Maybe not as much time as he should, but some time. Some evenings. Most weekends. A wealth of knowledge of the world and how it worked, although he didn’t want Ben to learn much of what he’d discovered as a detective. He also realized that he had an odd sort of role model in his own father. Yes, he resolved to treat Ben in the opposite way his own father had treated him. Time and love, these he might be able give Ben. Money? He didn’t have any. But maybe time and love were what mattered most.
After a while he left, closing the door slowly behind him. In the master bedroom he took off his bathrobe, climbed into bed next to Mei, and lay awake. He thought about the bills of sale Carl had sent him, could picture them lying on the kitchen counter, waiting to be looked at. His curiosity needled him. He couldn’t stifle it.
There was something in those documents. Perhaps a name. Perhaps something else.
Chapter Sixty-Two
He’d look at the bills of sale now. He didn’t care that it was the middle of the night.
Quietly as he could, he dressed in street clothes and left the bedroom.
He padded into the kitchen and made coffee. Mei had one of those coffee makers in which you inserted a plastic capsule, pressed a button, and the machine would brew a single cup. So he’d brought over the Mr. Coffee from his old apartment. He wanted a pot of coffee, not a cup. Plus, he preferred the taste of the Mr. Coffee. He measured enough Dunkin’ Donuts coffee for ten cups, filled the machine’s tank with water, and switched it on. A moment later he heard the coffee dripping through the filter into the pot.
