by Jason Starr
“Wait,” I said, “if this has to do with what I think it has to do with, you have it all wrong.”
“I’ll bank transfer any outstanding commissions. Leave or I’m calling the police.”
I couldn’t get arrested again. Even if the cops showed up to just investigate another complaint about me, and Barasco found out, it wouldn’t lead to anything positive.
“Okay, relax, I’m not causing a scene,” I said. “I know why you’re concerned, but just so you know, there’s another side to this. The main thing is I’m innocent—I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Your employment is terminated,” Andrew said. “There isn’t anything to discuss.”
“I understand and I’m leaving,” I said, “but can you just tell me what’s going on? We’ve known each other a long time now. What’s it been five, six years? I think I deserve some sort of explanation.”
This seemed to resonate with him. Or he just wanted to say whatever he had to say to get rid of me.
“A detective came by here yesterday. He told me about the whole situation.”
“He has it in for me,” I said. “I don’t know why, but he does.”
“Jack—”
“Did he tell you that I didn’t actually do anything? That I’m actually just a person of interest in the case? That I—”
“He told me your wife has a restraining order against you.”
“That isn’t true,” I said. “See? He makes things up.” I turned toward Brian and Claire, our audience. “Come on, tell him you believe me. I work with you guys every day, you know what kind of person I am. A friend of mine, just last night, told me what a great guy I am, how I helped him when he was down and no one else would. Doesn’t that mean anything? If some self-absorbed cop comes in here, tells you a bunch of lies about me, you just believe it? Doesn’t our history count for anything?”
I knew I was rambling, struggling to connect with them on anything.
Andrew had his phone to his ear. “I’m calling the police, Jack.”
“Come on, you guys know I’m not a killer,” I said to the room. “This is ridiculous.”
“The phone’s ringing,” Andrew said.
Brian and Claire wouldn’t look at me.
“Fine, whatever,” I said, and stormed out to the street.
“Son of a bitch!” I yelled and kicked the first thing I saw—a bag of garbage.
I continued around the neighborhood, cursing at Andrew, saying, “Spineless asshole,” and, “Rich fuck.” Then I noticed people looking at me with fear and disgust, and trying to avoid me, the way I used to try to avoid the ranting lunatics in the neighborhood.
I sat in the public, outdoor seating at the Starbucks on 85th and 1st. As I calmed down, I realized that while the ranting was new, my behavior was familiar—blaming others for my problems. Andrew had fired me, but had Andrew made me go on Discreet Hookups? Even Rob McEvoy hadn’t forced me to go on. I was the one who’d made the bad decisions; I was the one who’d fucked up. But it was always easier for me to get angry than to self-reflect. Call it my fatal flaw.
But at least I knew I had a problem, which meant I wasn’t so far gone, right? I was doing the best I could to get my shit together and had to resist falling into the trap of becoming too hard on myself. Blaming myself could be just as destructive as blaming others. I had to give myself a pass.
Also, there was always the chance that my perception could be warped. Stress could do that to a person.
Maybe my whole life wasn’t as fucked up as it seemed. Maybe it just felt that way. After all, I had Anthony working for me now.
I texted Anthony: Hey, anything going on?
He got right back to me: How you doin? The jeans fit?
The response didn’t exactly inspire confidence. I was in trouble, depending on him, and he was asking about his jeans? I hoped he was taking this seriously and I hadn’t misjudged him. I’d lost my family, my apartment, my money, and now my job, and I was counting on a recovering hard-core drug addict, an ex-con, to bail me out?
I responded: Great any news???
He replied right away: In middle something big call u later.
I wasn’t sure what to make of this. Did “something big” mean a break in the case? At least he didn’t sound like he was strung out on heroin. At this point I’d take any encouragement I could get.
I started walking again, realizing I was only a few blocks from Jonah’s school. It was nine thirty—Maria must’ve dropped him off an hour ago. I could go to the school, just to see him and say hi, let him know I was okay.
Without weighing the pros and cons of this, I headed over there.
I knew Florence, the security guard, very well. I’d known her since Jonah had started going to the school, for kindergarten.
I entered the school and went up the short stairwell and approached her at her desk. She was a heavyset black woman, about fifty years old. While she was usually smiling, in a good mood, she had the tough-ass vibe of someone you didn’t want to mess with.
“Hey, Florence, how are you?”
“Hangin’ in there,” she said. A copy of some tabloid magazine was open in front of her. “Woke up today, that’s one good thing, right?”
“Now I feel a lot better about my own life,” I said.
Even though what I’d said wasn’t particularly funny, she laughed.
“I have to give my son his lunch, he forgot it,” I said.
I patted my coat pocket, to imply his lunch was in there.
“A’right,” she said. “Have a great day.”
“You, too,” I said.
After I signed in at the main office, I went right to Jonah’s classroom on the second floor. I just wanted to tell him I loved him and give him a reassuring hug. I only planned to stay in the school for a few minutes, tops.
The hallway was empty except for a girl who passed by me, clutching a hall pass, probably on her way to the bathroom.
“Hey,” I said.
She looked away, maybe remembering what her parents had told her about not talking to strangers.
That, or she’d gotten a bad vibe about me.
Through the windowed door, I peered into Jonah’s classroom.
His teacher, Lauren—blond, pregnant, in her twenties—saw me. She seemed concerned, even a little panicked. I wasn’t sure why. Was she just surprised? If so, why the panic?
I smiled, then shifted my eyes toward the students to indicate that I was here to see Jonah. She remained where she was, still with that odd deer-in-headlights look, as if trying to figure what to do.
I needed to talk to her, explain why I was here. As I entered the classroom, she rushed over, blocking me from opening the door fully and entering.
“You’re not supposed to be here, Mr. Harper.”
“I just need to talk to Jonah for a second.”
“Please go away.”
I saw Jonah—he was at his desk, waving to me. It was so great to see his face. It had only been about two days since I’d seen him last, but it felt like years.
I motioned with my arm for him to come over to me.
“Mr. Harper, you have to leave right now,” Lauren said.
Jonah came over. After what I’d been through the past couple of days, it was amazing to see him.
“Hey, kiddo,” I said, and hugged him and picked him up a little.
Lauren, sounding panicked, like I was a school shooter or something, said to another boy, “Go get Ms. Wong. Right now, out the back door.”
The boy darted out of the classroom. I noticed the remaining kids looked scared.
“Whoa, what’s going on?” I said. “Everything’s gonna be okay,” I said to the class. “I’m just here to talk to Jonah for a couple minutes, that’s it.”
“Mom said I can’t talk to you,” Jonah said.
The whole class, and Lauren, had overheard this. I felt embarrassed, even humiliated.
Bending down, I whispered into Jonah’s ear, “Mom’s just angry right now an
d that’s okay. Sometimes people get angry, okay? But I just came here to tell you I love you and everything’s going to be okay. Okay?”
Then I looked in Jonah’s eyes and saw he was crying. He was shaking a little, too.
“Come on, stop it,” I whispered. “It’s me, Daddy. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he managed to say before he began full on bawling.
It hit me that by coming to the school I hadn’t made things any better. I’d made things much, much worse.
“Get away from the child.”
I looked back over my shoulder and saw that Florence and the principal, Ms. Wong, had entered the classroom. This wasn’t affable Florence of a few minutes earlier. This was angry, no bullshit, ready-to-beat-the-crap-out-of-me-if-she-had-to Florence.
Jonah was still crying. Fuck, why did every positive thing I tried to do dissolve into a total shit storm?
“Don’t worry, it’s okay,” I said to Jonah.
“Away!” Florence grabbed my wrist with a clamp-like grip and pulled me backward so hard I stumbled.
Lauren went to Jonah and tried to calm him down.
“Okay, okay, I’m leaving, you can let go,” I said to Florence.
“Damn right you’re leaving,” Florence said, pulling me into the hallway.
“It’s okay,” I said to Jonah, but I didn’t think he heard me.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Florence. “It was a misunderstanding. You can let go of me now. I’ll leave right now.”
She let go.
“Nobody told me you weren’t allowed into the school.”
“Nobody told me either,” I said.
“I could put your ass in jail, you understand that?”
I didn’t know if this was true or not, but I didn’t want the school to notify Maria. If Maria exaggerated the situation, reported that I’d tried to kidnap Jonah from school, I’d definitely go back to jail, and might not get out so quickly next time.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m leaving and I won’t come back, I promise. I’m sorry if I put you in an awkward position.”
“Just get your ass outta here,” she said.
Leaving the school, I felt energized. While coming to see Jonah had been risky, I was still glad I’d done it. When he first saw me, I could tell how happy he was. He’d only gotten upset because of Lauren’s reaction, because he was confused.
Heading toward the Lexington Avenue subway, I was excited about the future. Soon things would return to normal, I’d get another chance, and this time I wouldn’t make the mistake I’d made before—I wouldn’t take the positive things in my life for granted. I’d gotten into a rut in my marriage and with work, but I wouldn’t take those little moments for granted again. I’d get a new job—in real estate, or maybe something music related. I’d always wanted to teach music; maybe I’d teach, work with kids.
I checked my phone, hoping that Anthony had gotten back to me. I got his voice mail.
“Hey, Anthony, it’s Jack at um … I guess around ten o’clock. Just checking back to see what your big news is. Hope big means good. Talk to you in a few.”
In front of the 77th Street station, I waited for him to reply. Sometimes I didn’t get service on the train and I didn’t want to miss anything.
Twenty minutes went by and the only text I got was from a client—well, I guess ex-client—asking me if I had any new studios to show him.
I responded: Thanks for the interest! I’m currently transitioning to a new agency. Good luck with your search!
Then I texted Anthony: getting on train TTYL, then headed back to Queens.
* * *
Entering Anthony’s apartment, I said, “Hello?”
No answer.
The lights were out; the apartment looked the same as when I’d left. A quick inspection seemed to confirm that he hadn’t been home.
I checked my phone—still no voice mail or response to my text.
I was losing patience. What was up with the guy? He knew I was anxious, desperate, at a low point in my life, and he keeps me hanging like this?
I texted him again. Just Hey.
Still nothing. I could call him again, but what use would that do? Another voice mail wouldn’t reduce his response time to the first one.
Then I noticed the red streaks on the floor. I flashed back to the townhouse, when I’d discovered Sophie’s body, telling myself, This is impossible. This can’t be happening. Not again.
Still in denial, I thought, How did ketchup get on the floor? Then the charade ended and full-blown panic hit.
“Fuck,” I said. “Holy fuck. No, no, no.”
I still didn’t want to believe this was happening. There had to be some explanation to this—well, an explanation beyond the obvious one.
Fueled by this slim hope, I followed the trail of blood into the bathroom.
He was lying facedown in a glistening pool of dark-red blood. A butcher knife had been jammed into his lower back.
Instinctively, I wanted to yank the knife out of his back, to try to save my friend. But as I reached for the handle, I stopped myself.
Was I out of my fucking mind?
After what had happened at Lawrence and Sophie Ward’s townhouse, did I really want to contaminate another crime scene? I backed away from the body out of the bathroom. But, big problem. I’d stepped in the blood and had tracked blood from the bathroom to the kitchen.
So much for not contaminating another crime scene. I could just tell the truth, tell Barasco I’d walked into an apartment and—for the second time in about a week—discovered a dead body. Yeah, that would go over great. I’d tell him that somebody was setting me up, and he’d come up with some vague motive why I’d want to kill Anthony—we’d had a fight about something—and I’d be charged for a double homicide. I’d taken the honesty route after I discovered Sophie’s body, and where had that gotten me?
Using a wet paper towel, I wiped down the apartment the best I could, focusing on areas I knew I’d touched, like the doorknob and locks on the front door, but also areas I didn’t think I’d touched, like the table and countertop in the kitchen. Although I didn’t see any blood on the bottoms of my shoes, I wiped them down, too, and then I scrubbed the floor—from the front door to the bathroom. I put all of the paper towels into a plastic bag that I found under the sink. I wiped anything I touched, but I’d seen enough CSI to know that it was nearly impossible to clean up a crime scene entirely. Evidence of me—a strand of hair, fiber from my clothes—had to be somewhere. When the forensics teams found the evidence, I could claim that of course my DNA was in the apartment because I’d been staying here. If I’d left evidence on or near Anthony’s body, or if forensics found the remnants of one of my bloody footsteps, this would be much harder to explain.
The buzzer from the intercom rang.
It wasn’t particularly loud—probably the sound of a normal intercom buzzer—but it sounded practically deafening.
I tried not to panic. Kids and random delivery people always rang the buzzers to walk-up buildings—it was one of the big advantages of living in a doorman building. Besides, it was just the buzzer to the outside of the building, not like the doorbell was ringing.
The buzzer sounded again—longer this time, someone pushing down and maintaining pressure. After the buzzer sounded for a third time, there was a long period of silence.
Figuring the person had given up, I dampened a wad of paper towel, then bent down and wiped the floor of the kitchen. Some pink showed on the wad of paper towels, confirming my fear that there was still blood on the floor.
Squatting, panic hit when I heard footsteps on the stairs—someone coming up.
Still, it didn’t mean the person was coming to this apartment. A delivery person, or a visitor to another tenant, could have pressed random buzzers just to get into the building.
Only the footsteps were getting louder. Then the person seemed to reach the landing right outside the door and then:
T
he doorbell rang.
Again, the noise jolted me, but I didn’t make a sound. I stayed still, barely breathing, as only a couple of feet separated me from whoever was in the hallway.
The doorbell rang a few more times, then:
“Anthony? You home?”
It was a woman, with a heavy Brooklyn, or maybe Staten Island, accent—Anthony sounded like Ant’nee. Was she Anthony’s girlfriend? He’d been married years ago, but he hadn’t mentioned another woman in his life.
“Anthony, you there?”
She rang the bell again and then started banging on the door. If anyone else on the floor was home, they’d definitely overhear the racket she was causing.
“I see a light on under the door,” she said. “I know you’re there.”
How did a light prove someone was home? People left lights on all the time.
“Come on,” she said. “Open up or I’m gonna get in there somehow.”
What did that mean? Did she have access to a key from a neighbor?
Figuring I was better off just letting her in, I said, “One sec.” I put the wad of paper towel I was still holding into the plastic bag, then put the plastic bag under the kitchen sink. “Sorry, just, um, putting some clothes on.”
I shut the bathroom door, then, finally, opened the front door.
The woman was dark-skinned, maybe Indian. She had shoulder-length black hair, and was in jeans, Nikes, and a blue hooded sweatshirt. She was stocky, had big shoulders.
“Who are you?” She looked and sounded surprised.
“I’m just, um, a friend,” I said.
The hesitation must’ve sounded suspicious as hell, but I hoped she hadn’t noticed.
C’mon, Jack, focus.
“Is Anthony home?” she asked.
“No, he isn’t,” I said, “can I help you with something?”
“You know when he’s comin’ back?”
“No. No, actually I don’t.”
“Who are you?” She sounded demanding, suspicious.
“A friend of his,” I said.
“Name?”
Now this was getting officially weird.
“How about you tell me your name?” I asked.
She looked past me into the apartment. “You living here now?”
“I’m sorry, who are you?” I asked.
