The Righteous Men (2006)

by Sam Bourne

  Will had been to the Lower East Side a few times, to visit friends chic and savvy enough to buy up and renovate properties in the now-gentrified pockets north of East Broadway. He had seen the old-time delis, drunk coffee in the retro-chic cafes on Orchard Street. But he had not wandered beyond the safely fashionable areas. He had glided past the old tenement buildings, seeing them as cinematic backdrop. He had never looked properly.

  Now he was among them, shivering from cold and exhaustion in the night air. Scrunched in his hand, safely hidden inside his pocket, was the scrap of paper with the address he was meant to find.

  Rabbi Freilich had led Will and TC back to the computer whiz who had given them the earlier demonstration. He talked them through the process. First, feed the computer the Hebrew sentence: Verse 16 of Isaiah 30. Then ask it to stop at the right intervals, and it will spit out a number. Feed that number through the GPS websites and you get co-ordinates for a place: a specific address on a specific street on the Lower East Side in Manhattan.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Will had said. ‘Isn’t this a bit unlikely?

  You’ve got thirty-six righteous men out of six billion people on the planet — and two are in New York? Howard Macrae and now this guy? It sounds a bit convenient to me.’ It had not yet congealed into a full allegation, but Will’s scepticism was turning into suspicion.

  The rabbi explained that they too had wondered at such a coincidence. But then they had read deeper into Hassidic folklore. It turned out a truly great tzaddik radiated a ‘glow’ — the same word Rabbi Mandelbaum had used — that might draw in others. Their calculated guess was that the Rebbe’s goodness had been so powerful that a couple of tzaddikim had been pulled near. Think of them as satellites,’ the rabbi had said.

  But there was a problem. The address now balled up in Will’s fist was an apartment building, home to dozens of people. Which one was the tzaddik? The Hassidim had gone down there once to check it out soon after Yosef Yitzhok had first cracked the Rebbe’s code, but they had not been able to identify him. The man in this building remained one of the most hidden of the hidden righteous men.

  ‘You will have a better chance of finding him than us,’

  Freilich had said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Look at us, Mr Monroe. We cannot go where you go, we cannot ask what you can ask. We are too visible. You are a reporter from The New York Times. You can go where you like and talk to anybody. You found Mr Macrae, zechuso yogen aleinu, and Mr Baxter, zechuso yogen aleinu.’ May his righteousness protect us. ‘Find this man. Go find our tzaddik.’

  So shortly before midnight, Will took off his skullcap and went back out into the world. As he set off, TC decided to do the same.

  ‘I’m going to call the police. I can’t hide from them forever.

  We’ve done what we needed to do.’

  ‘What will you say?’

  ‘That my phone’s been dead all day and I’ve only just heard what happened. Wish me luck. Or at least visit me in jail.’

  ‘This is so not a joke.’

  ‘I know. But you can see what it looks like: a dead man in my apartment and I’m AWOL. I might be charged with murder by the morning.’

  ‘This is all my fault. I sucked you into this insane mess.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You asked for my help. I could have said no. I knew what I was getting into.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  And with that, Will leaned over to give TC a kiss on the cheek — only for her to pull back the moment he came close. There was a magnetic field of resistance around her face. Of course. She was not allowed to touch a man, let alone be kissed by one, not in the heart of Crown Heights. Will made do with a plain goodbye.

  Now watching his breath form clouds before him, Will turned the corner so that he was at Montgomery and Henry.

  Behind him was a small triangle of park. In front, the tenement building he was looking for. He held back, wanting to gaze at it a while. He could see one, two, three lights still on.

  Now what? He had barely considered what he would do once he got here. He could not exactly start knocking on doors, claiming to be doing a vox pop for The New York Times after midnight. What could he do?

  He would have to get into the building. That would be a start. Then he could look at the mail boxes, get some names, Google a few of them on his BlackBerry. He would think of something. ‘

  Oh, good. Someone coming out. Perfect: that would give him his chance to slip in. Except this person was moving too fast, almost running. It was hard to make him, or her, out; it was too dark and the light above the entrance too dim. But when he stepped forward, looking nervously left and right, Will saw enough.

  Most striking was the piercing brightness of his eyes, a chill, glassy blue. But it was the posture Will recognized. A physical confidence, as if this man was used to using his body. The clothes were slightly changed, but there was no mistaking him — with or without his baseball cap.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Monday, 12.13am, Manhattan

  Will’s first instinct was to observe. He was used to watching, seeing how things unfolded. So it took a beat and then another before Will realized that he could not just watch. He would have to stalk the stalker.

  He was wary. Hardly anyone was around; he would be noticed. So he kept far back, walking as quietly as he could. He cursed the black leather shoes he was wearing: they made too much noise. He tried to prevent his heels making contact with the sidewalk, to dampen the sound.

  But the man in front seemed to be in a hurry as he charged down Henry Street. Not running, but a brisk walk that allowed no time for looking back. That emboldened Will; he walked faster, taking pains to keep just less than a block between them.

  The stalker was carrying a black leather bag at his side, the strap worn like a sash crossing over to his opposite shoulder. He was neat and self-contained, moving nimbly. Will was no expert, but he would have been surprised if this guy did not have some connection with the military.

  By now he had crossed Clinton and Jefferson. Where was he going? To meet a getaway car? If so, why had he not been picked up earlier? Maybe he was walking towards a subway station. Will cursed his limited knowledge of New York: he had no idea if there was a station near here.

  Without warning, the man suddenly looked back. Will saw the movement of his head and, without even thinking, moved off the sidewalk towards the steps of the tenement block he was passing. At the same time he reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. What the stalker would have seen was a man entering his own apartment building. He walked on; Will let out a deep sigh. He had been holding his breath.

  By now the man ahead was turning a sharp right. Will tried to position himself so that he would not be caught in his field of vision.

  ‘Yo, Ashley! You got my phone?’

  Will had not seen them coming, but there they were, right in front of him. Three African-American teenage girls, filling up the sidewalk. Will tried to slide past, but they were in the mood for some fun.

  ‘What’s the hurry, handsome? You don’t like how we look?

  You don’t think we look fine?’ At this the other two were screeching with laughter. He looked over their heads, to see the stalker heading down a side street towards East Broadway.

  He was hard to make out.

  ‘Yo, I’m over here, honey!’ It was the leader of the pack, now waving her hand in Will’s face. If he had been born in New York, he was sure he would have shoved them aside with a curt, ‘Get the fuck out of my way.’ But even here, on a mission to prevent a murder in the dead of night, he was still an Englishman.

  ‘Excuse me, I have to get past. Please.’

  With that, he weaved around Ashley and company, hearing more whooping and calling behind him. ‘My friend says you can have her number!’

  Will now broke into a run, desperate to catch up. He reached the junction and turned right, scanning the street up and down in
search of his quarry. There was a couple making out on a stoop. But no sign of the stalker.

  He could see only two non-residential buildings; the man might have fled into either one of them. He certainly could not yet have reached East Broadway or else Will would have caught sight of him. Will slowed down, checking over his shoulder, aware that this was exactly how to walk into an ambush. After fifteen paces, Will gave up: he had clearly lost the man he had needed to follow. He must have escaped into one of these two buildings, on opposite sides of the street. Will was near enough now to see what they were. One was the Church of the Reborn Jesus, but the other was a synagogue — affiliated to the Hassidim of Crown Heights.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Monday, 12.28 am, Manhattan

  Should he try to break into one or both of these places, to find the man he had followed? A true man of action would do just that. But as he was sizing up the first building, a police car sped past, lights flashing. He stepped back. That was all he needed: to be arrested for breaking into a synagogue in the small hours of Monday morning. And on Yom Kippur of all days. What believable grounds for following this man did he even have? He had seen him come out of an apartment building on the Lower East Side. Oh, and he had seen him out of TC’s window yesterday. He had seen him commit no crime. As Harden would say, ‘You’ve got a notebook full of nothing.’ Nothing except a grim suspicion that was becoming firmer every minute.

  He retraced his steps towards the building on Montgomery Street. He and Rabbi Freilich had discussed what he should do in only the sketchiest terms. ‘Just call me,’ the rabbi had said. ‘Even if you’re not sure it’s him, call.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘We’ll come and we’ll help.’

  Will was not quite sure what that meant.

  He crossed the street and took a few furtive steps towards the entrance of the tenement. A gleam of light drew his eye to the door-lock: it was not fully shut! The stalker must have left it ajar, perhaps to avoid making even that small noise.

  Will creaked it open and slipped inside.

  Perez, La Pinez, Abdulla, Bitensky, Wilkins, Gonzales, Yoelson, Alberto. The mailboxes offered no clues.

  There was a rickety elevator, but that was no use. He needed to check each floor, every apartment. He ran quietly up the stairs, stopping at each landing: but all he could see were shut doors, shabby doormats, the odd sodden umbrella left outside. Will realized the futility of this expedition. What was he looking for? A plaque announcing, ‘Mr Righteous Tzaddik lives here. Available for weddings, birthdays and bar mitzvahs’?

  By the third landing, he was poised to call Freilich and press him for more information. Anything else they had which might narrow it down. But the last apartment on the third floor stopped him dead.

  The door was open.

  Will crept towards it, lightly tapping it with his knuckles as he moved past and inside. ‘Hello,’ he called out, almost in a whisper. No lights were on, just the silver shadow of the moon, coming through the window that faced the street.

  He looked to his left. A galley kitchen, small and made up of 1950s units. Not as some retro fashion statement, but the real thing: a bulky, curved fridge; a stove with oversized knobs.

  This was the home, Will concluded, of an old person.

  Then he looked to his right. He could see a big radio on a table; a couple of wooden chairs, whose seats were cushioned in thin, fake leather; one was spilling out its stuffing. Then a couch—

  Will gasped, jumping back. There was a man lying on it, flat on his back. Silhouetted in the light were the bristles on his chin. He had a small, squirrel-like face framed by clunky, chunky spectacles. The rest of him looked shrunken with age, in a too-big cardigan. He seemed to be sleeping. Will took a step forward, then another one, until he was crouched over him. He placed his hand in front of the man’s mouth and waited to feel a breath.

  Nothing.

  Then Will touched him, placing a hand on his forehead.

  Cold. He put a finger on his neck, searching for a pulse. He knew there would be none.

  Will moved backwards, as if to take in the enormity of what he could see. As he did, he felt a crunch of glass. He looked down to see that he had just stepped on a syringe.

  He was bending down to get a closer look when the room flooded with light.

  ‘Put your hands in the air and turn around. NOW!’

  Will did as he was told. He could barely see; he was dazzled by the three or four torches aimed directly at his eyes.

  ‘Step away from the body. That’s good. Now walk towards me. SLOWLY!’

  His eyes were not yet adjusted but he could make out the small circle dancing before him, right next to the ring of torch light. It was the barrel of a gun — and it was aimed at him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Monday, 12.51am, Manhattan

  In a way, it helped that he was so exhausted. In normal circumstances, his heart would have been banging loud enough to wake the neighbourhood. Instead, his fatigue acted as a kind of defensive shield, slowing down his reactions and even his emotions. His default mental state had become weary resignation.

  He was now in handcuffs in the back of a squad car, jammed up against an officer of the New York Police Department. In front, the radio traffic was constant — and all about him. He was, it was clear, a murder suspect.

  The men in the car were giving off an odour that Will recalled from his adolescence: testosterone and adrenalin, the smell of a locker room after a big win. These men were high on success, and he was the prize. They had caught him all but red-handed, looming over his victim, his fingerprints on his neck. The officers in this unit could almost touch the police medals they were bound to receive.

  ‘I did not kill that man,’ Will heard himself say. The scene was so absurd, so remote from the rest of his life experience, that the voice sounded disembodied, unconnected. It was like listening to the radio, one of the BBC afternoon dramas his mother was hooked on.

  ‘I know what it looks like, but I assure you that’s not what happened.’ Suddenly a bolt of inspiration. ‘But I could lead you to the man who did do it! I followed him out of that building less than an hour ago. I know where he’s hiding! I can even give you a description.’

  The officer in the front passenger seat turned around to give Will an ironic smile. Sure you can, son. And I’m gonna pitch for the Yankees next Tuesday.

  At the seventh precinct station, Will maintained his defiance. ‘I just found that body!’ he said, as they led him upstairs.

  I’d seen the man leave the building, I followed him and then I went back. I thought he had killed someone and I was right!’

  Even as the words came out of his mouth, he knew they sounded ridiculous. The cop who had been guarding Will from the start stared at him contemptuously. ‘Will you shut the fuck up?’

  For the first time since the police had picked him up, Will began to panic. What the hell was he doing here? He needed to get to Beth. He needed to be out on the streets, in Crown Heights or wherever else, searching for his wife — not chained up as a prisoner of the New York Police Department. He was not even thinking about the prospect of being charged with murder; merely losing vital hours battling the bureaucracy of the New York criminal justice system was nightmarish enough.

  Every minute spent here was another minute not finding Beth. Besides, the Hassidim had been emphatic: there was no time to lose; the fate of the world was to be decided in the coming hours and minutes. Yet here he was, doing nothing; his hands literally tied.

  They took him to the sergeant’s desk, where someone was waiting for him: the detective he had seen at the apartment building. He had inspected the scene while they kept Will in the car. ‘I got a prisoner to log in,’ he said, addressing the clerk and ignoring Will. Whippet-faced and in his late thirties, the rising star of the homicide department, Will guessed.

  ‘OK, let’s empty his pockets.’ The cop who had played bodyguard stepped forward. He had a
lready frisked Will hard at the apartment: after the police had seen the syringe, they were taking no chances. They also took his cell phone and BlackBerry: no calling of accomplices. Now they took the rest: coins, keys, notebook.

  ‘Let’s get all this stuff vouchered,’ the detective said. Each item was put in a clear, plastic zip-loc bag and sealed. The detective made a note, witnessed by the desk sergeant.

  As they opened his wallet, Will was prompted to make one of his biggest mistakes of the night. In among the plastic was his press card: Will Monroe, New York Times.

  ‘OK, I’ll admit it. The real reason I was in that building was that I was on assignment for the Times. It was undercover.

  I’ve been writing a series on crime in the city and that’s what I was doing.’

  The detective looked at him for the first time.

  ‘You work for The New York Times?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do,’ said Will, glad just to have got a response.

  The detective looked away and the clerk went back to her work.

  Will was led to another desk, where he was asked to place his right index finger on the electronic device in front of him, hold still, and then do the same with his left. Then the rest of his fingers and his thumbs. It beeped, as if he was a package at a supermarket.

  Next, Will was taken towards a room marked ‘interview suite’. On the way the detective handed a copy of Will’s details to a colleague: ‘Jeannie, can you do a name-search on this for me?’

  Now they were inside. Just a table, with a chair on either side and a phone in the corner. Nothing on the walls but a calendar: New York, the Empire State.

  ‘OK, my name is Larry Fitzwalter and I’m going to be your detective for the evening. We’re going to begin like this.’ He produced another form. ‘You have the right to remain silent. Do you understand?’

  ‘I do understand, but I would really like to explain—’

  ‘OK, you understand. Can you initial here, please?’

  ‘Look, I was in there because I followed a man in there—’