by Pat Young
24
He’d left his car miles away and taken a taxi for a few blocks, completing the last half mile on foot. This was a part of town that tourists were advised to avoid, but he wasn’t a tourist. He was a New Yorker, born and bred, and not from the privileged part he had people believe. He was the American Dream, a poor white boy made good, and he was proud of it. But in a quiet, personal way. Unlike some self-made men of his acquaintance, he never boasted about his journey from the gutter to the glitz. Not even his wife knew about the poverty he’d grown up in.
He found the rendezvous, a warehouse that was owned by one of his companies. Empty now, no longer needed, but not yet ready for reselling. He could afford to wait till the value increased.
What he couldn’t wait for was to get to the bottom of this Charlotte thing.
He freed the heavy iron door of its padlocks and hauled on the handle. The rusted hinges shrieked their reluctance to cooperate and the screeching echoed across the deserted lot. He waited in the shadows. When no one appeared, he stepped from the murk of the street into a darkness several shades deeper. The place smelt of damp and decay. He wondered if the roof needed a repair. He hoped it hadn’t been broken into by junkies looking for a place to squat. He listened hard for a few minutes. All he could hear was the scurrying of some creature he’d rather not identify. His eyes were adjusting to the dark but there was little to see, apart from the skeleton of an ancient shelving system that had been too much bother to move.
He crouched down, back against the wall, and waited.
He liked to be early. For everything. A board meeting, a billion-dollar deal, an assignation with a mistress. Being early gave him the chance to be prepared. And it gave him power.
He said nothing when the door creaked opened and his contact crept in, silhouetted for a moment against the meagre streetlight. He watched the man look around, at a clear disadvantage. Just the way he liked it. When the door banged closed, the warehouse was plunged back into blackness. He waited, long enough to make the other man nervous, then flicked a switch on the huge flashlight he was carrying. A megawatt beam lasered through the darkness, illuminating and startling the guy he’d come to meet.
The man stepped back as if shot, covering his eyes with both hands.
‘Fuck! Get that light outta my face.’
He held the flashlight steady and said nothing. He had the power.
He let a few long seconds pass before he slowly lowered the beam. It dropped like a dying spotlight, concentrating its light in a blue-white pool at the man’s feet.
He waited for him to approach, noticing the exaggeration of the arrogant swagger. Sure sign of nerves.
‘You got another job for me, chief?’
‘Could be. Once we tie up a few loose ends from the last job.’
Half-lit from below, the guy’s face was hard to read. The expression on it might have been surprise, but whether feigned or genuine, it was impossible to tell.
‘I hired you to take out Charlotte Gillespie.’
‘Yeah, and I did.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Of course I’m sure. What the hell is this?’
‘Intelligence tells me she may still be alive.’
‘Dude. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You got the key, didn’t you?’
This guy was hiding something. He knew it. He’d seen enough bluffing in his time at the board table.
‘Yes. But that proves nothing,’ he said. ‘You could have ripped that ribbon off her neck and made a run for it. You get paid without getting your hands dirty. Result.’
The guy protested, stammering and stuttering, cheating vibes coming off him like gorgonzola in a heatwave. He was holding something back.
‘You came highly recommended. I heard you were one of the best.’ Flattery was a useful tool.
The bravado was back. ‘I am one of the best. And your woman’s dead. She died on 9/11, like all those other poor bastards. Perfect cover up for both of us.’
‘Perfect cover up for you, you mean. You got paid for a murder and all you did was steal a key. You can see why I might feel I’ve been ripped off, can’t you?’
‘Listen, man. I killed the woman. Suffocated her. It was real easy. With all that dust in the air. She hardly even struggled.’
‘Maybe you killed a woman. The problem is, you didn’t kill the right woman. And now there she is, walking around Manhattan. She could cause me a whole lot of trouble I can’t afford.’
The hitman said nothing, seemed to be thinking of his next move.
‘And the way I see it, I’m due my money back.’ He raised the torch and shone the beam right in the guy’s face, saw the panic there. The man closed his eyes and turned away from the blinding light.
‘I can’t pay it back. I owed that money and it’s gone. But I swear to you, I took out the woman you wanted dead.’
He said nothing.
‘Trust me, man. She’s dead.’
‘Unfortunately, you can’t prove it, can you?’
‘I got some proof,’ said the dude, reaching for his back pocket.
His own hand went automatically to his waistband, but stalled there when the hitman produced not a gun, but a photo ID card on a lanyard. He jerked his wrist and the plastic card bungeed to the end of its nylon cord and dangled there. The beam of light picked out Charlotte’s face and the name of her company.
‘This is the target, right?’
He nodded. ‘I asked you to take the key. Nothing else.’
‘And you got the key. But it always pays to have a little backup plan. Call it insurance for the future.’
‘So you were planning to keep it so you could blackmail me?’
‘Hey, that’s not such a bad idea.’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ he growled.
‘No, nothing that fancy. There’s always a market for fake ID. A free pass into the North Tower at WTC? That would’ve been gold to somebody planning to steal a few laptops or dip a few purses. Now there is no North Tower. But plenty of saddos out there will be wettin’ themselves for something like this. Memorabilia. Worth good money.’ He jerked on the string and flipped the card into his hand. He waved it around, like someone teasing a small child. ‘Now do you believe I got the right woman?’
It was often wiser to say nothing in tense negotiations. Wait to see what the other guy’s next move would be.
The lowlife turned his face to the light and paused, like a soloist ready to perform. His tone defiant, he said, ‘I been thinking, I bet the cops would be interested in why a nice gentleman like you would want a nice lady like that murdered.’
He’d heard enough. He slowly raised his right arm into the shaft of light, illuminating simultaneously the gun and the shock on the poor guy’s face. A soft echo of muffled gunshot floated to the roof and back and it was done. He bent to disentangle the nylon cord from the dead fingers that held the ID like a pass to the underworld.
He fetched some old burlap from the shelving and threw it over the body. It might be found when the building was demolished, but the warehouse would guard his secret for a few years. It would be a long time till this area was scheduled for redevelopment. He’d make sure of that.
With all his senses on high alert he locked and padlocked the door, urging his trembling fingers to hurry up. Then, fighting the desire to throw up on the sidewalk, he walked the few streets back to the district where he’d been dropped by the cab.
Once he’d hailed another and was safely inside, he expelled a long, shaky breath and began to consider his next move. There was no doubt left in his mind that the hitman believed he’d murdered Charlotte. He had certainly incapacitated her enough to remove the key and the ID from around her neck. That much was self-evident. But then the dust cloud came down and hid everything. He’d watched it himself on TV, several times. It had blacked out all vision for a few minutes, according to witnesses who’d been in the vicinity and got caught up in it. The white dust had been so thick it was
impossible to identify people or places, even after it cleared.
It had made for good television footage, seeing all those New York citizens transformed into walking snowmen. Very visual. He’d even seen one of his employees interviewed on CNN – and hadn’t recognised the guy until he’d heard the voice. A man he’d known for twenty years, white from head to toe and indistinguishable from every other businessman on the street.
It wasn’t impossible that Charlotte had recovered and crawled off under the cover of the dust cloud, back to her apartment. She had asthma, after all, so maybe the hitman thought he’d suffocated her, when she was just suffering a severe asthma attack. She’d become breathless one night after a particularly athletic bout of sex. He’d found it strangely stimulating at first and taken some credit, thinking his prowess had given her a particularly satisfying orgasm, but it had quickly become scary to see her gasp for air as if she were dying. The minute she’d got her inhaler and taken a few puffs, she bounced back and soon felt well enough for a rematch.
His sources told him she was still living in her apartment, so it didn’t look like she was planning on taking off. Or going to the cops. First thing he had to do was get close enough to find out what was going on. Then he could take action.
25
Lucie rose from a night spent worrying about her mum and dragged herself to the shower.
After all that angst about leaving the apartment and getting herself to the hospital, she’d managed to make a complete mess of things.
She’d been just about to slip out of Intensive Care when someone called, ‘Excuse me! May I help you?’
‘No, I mean, yes. Em, sorry. I seem to have got a bit lost.’
A young doctor, about her own age, stood smiling at her. ‘It’s a confusing place. Took me six weeks to find my way around. Where is it you want to go?’
Lucie picked the first place she could think of. ‘The cafeteria,’ she said, feeling a blush crawl up her neck.
‘You are lost.’
As he gave her directions, Lucie backed off saying, ‘Thanks, sorry to trouble you,’ and hurried away.
When she found herself alone in the elevator, she gave her head three bangs on the metal wall. How could she be so stupid? Why hadn’t she said she’d come to see Mrs McBride? She didn’t have to give details. The doctor had been friendly and kind. He didn’t look the type to interrogate somebody about their reasons for visiting.
She’d thought about going back to the mousey lady on reception and trying again. But then she’d get caught out in her lies. If her mother was no longer in ICU wasn’t that a sign she was getting better? Maybe she’d even been discharged? There was another alternative but Lucie preferred not to dwell on it.
All night long she’d tossed and turned, angry with herself for being such a wimp.
She’d made a terrifying trip into the outside world and a nerve-wracking visit to the hospital, and still she knew no more than she did this time yesterday. Worse, she was no closer to a plan for seeing her mother, despite a night spent agonising over the problem.
In the bathroom mirror her reflection was tired, but with the bruises fading every day, she looked better than when she’d first got here. Her hair, responding to Charlotte’s colour-enhancing shampoo, was sleek and glossy, and she’d put on a little weight too. Not surprising with the amount of good food sitting there in the refrigerator, asking to be scoffed. Lucie patted her tummy and gave her mirrored self a little warning to watch her weight. She had no idea how Charlotte ate that sort of food on a regular basis and fitted into the clothes in her wardrobe. One thing was certain, they wouldn’t fit Lucie for much longer unless she did something about her diet, or increased her exercise.
The novelty of using Charlotte’s treadmill had quickly worn off and the prospect of getting on it again was unappealing. Lucie had always preferred to run in the open air. She wondered if the Manhattan air would be safe to breath. What she’d give right now to be running through a bright Scottish morning, gulping down the fresh autumn air.
She wouldn’t be able to run far today, not till she built up some real fitness. How long was it since she’d had a proper run? Even if she had been able to afford running shoes, the neighbourhoods she’d lived in with Curtis weren’t the kind of places where housewives went jogging.
Kitted out in the finest of running gear, Lucie told herself to be brave and stepped out into the hallway. She’d found some brand-new trainers that Charlotte hadn’t even taken out of their box. Without socks, they were a good fit and her feet made no sound as she padded towards the elevator.
This time she made it inside without too much of a panic and hit the button for street level.
‘Good morning, Ms Gillespie,’ said Rob. He grinned at her as she crossed the lobby. ‘Off out for a run?’
Head down, she waggled her fingers in goodbye, keen to get out of the door before she lost her nerve, or met any neighbours who might know Charlotte.
She stopped, almost colliding with the plate–glass doors. Without making it obvious, Lucie looked for a handle or some button she needed to press. She waved her hand around in the air, hoping to trigger some invisible sensor. Nothing happened.
‘Rob? Something wrong with the doors?’
‘Not so far as I know, Ms Gillespie. How about you step back and try again?’
Lucie obliged, stepping back and forth like a cha-cha dancer, but the doors remained closed.
‘I’ll just go check the control panel, Ms Gillespie.’ Rob ambled off as if he had all the time in the world.
Lucie felt her courage draining away with every second she had to wait. She started to breathe to the count of six again in the hope of calming herself down.
When Rob reappeared at the end of the hall, unhurried, Lucie stepped up to the doors, keen to get through them and go. The sensor, wherever it was, failed to react and the doors stayed closed.
At the back of the lobby a discreet ting signalled the arrival of the elevator. Two men and a woman got out, in silence. None of them looked at Lucie. Rob wished them a jovial good morning and apologised for the problem with the doors.
‘I can’t stand around here all morning,’ said the woman, without returning Rob’s greeting.
Apparently, this was not the kind of apartment block where people got friendly. Maybe Charlotte knew none of her neighbours. Perhaps everyone who lived in a place like this was engrossed in his or her own life, all too busy working themselves to death to chat to the person next door.
‘It’s Ms Landsbury, isn’t it?’ asked the young doorman reverentially.
The woman nodded abruptly, her expression severe and judgemental.
‘I’m very sorry, Ms Landsbury. I’ve no idea what’s going on. I’ve never really worked with this type of door before.’
‘This is unacceptable. You’re a doorman, for God’s sake. If you can’t open doors, what are we paying you for? You need to do something. Fast.’ The woman opened her Louis Vuitton and removed a Blackberry. She turned her back on the doorman and her neighbours and began an intense conversation.
‘This can’t be the only exit, Rob,’ said one of the men, his tone friendly and reasonable. ‘The trash doesn’t go out this way, surely?’
‘No sir, it doesn’t, but I just checked the service door and someone seems to have parked so close up against it I can’t get it to open more than an inch.’
‘What kind of an idiot would do that?’ asked the man, looking to Lucie for agreement.
The other guy said, ‘Rob, I can work from home for an hour or so. Would you call me, please, when the doors release?’
‘Sure thing, Mr Baumler. And I’m sorry for the inconvenience.’
‘That’s okay, fella. Not your fault.’
‘Well, whose fault is it?’ demanded the woman, looking as if her phone call had brought the direst of news.
Lucie was losing her nerve. It was bad enough standing in Lycra leggings and T-shirt next to this perfectly made-up, divinely dre
ssed woman, but Lucie was panicking in case somebody spoke to her. She was fighting the temptation to run back upstairs to the safety of the apartment but that might be unwise, given they were all effectively trapped in the building.
‘What if there’s a fire?’ asked the woman, as if she’d read Lucie’s thoughts. ‘Have we learned nothing from 9/11?’ She looked at Lucie, as if for backup, but Lucie glanced away, uncomfortable with the crass reference to such a raw wound in the city’s side.
To avoid any contact with her new neighbour, Lucie turned to Rob. ‘Maybe there’s a code you need to put in or something?’
‘I already tried everything I could think of, but I’ll try again, Ms Gillespie. And the super should be here any minute. He’ll know how to fix it.’
Oh God, now he’d said the name out loud. Lucie waited for the well-dressed woman to denounce her with a strident, ‘She’s not Charlotte Gillespie.’
‘Hang on,’ she said, peering at Lucie’s face. ‘Did he just say Gillespie?’
Lucie nodded, unsure what else she could do.
‘Are you, by any chance, related to the Westchester Gillespie’s? From Sterling Hill?’
Great. Now the rudest woman in New York wanted to chat. Lucie tried to look interested, vacant, pensive. Anything but terrified.
‘What are you, twenty-nine, thirty? You’d be about the same age as Miriam? Tall girl. Great tennis player.’
Lucie started to slowly shake her head, as if she were doing a mental inventory of all the high-society folk she knew. ‘I don’t think so.’
At that moment Rob walked in front of the doors and, as if by the magic of sesame, they opened.
Her new best friend dismissed Lucie with a regal flap of her hand as she charged out the door. Or maybe her arm was already raised for a cab. In any case, it was clear her interest in Lucie was over.
Lucie was shaking as she stepped outside. She waited in the doorway for a moment, wanting to be sure her neighbour had gone. The air was still tainted with the odour of smoke, but it was good to be outdoors and Lucie turned her face to the warm sun, glad to be alive, and still free.
