Fugitive Red

by Jason Starr

  “He didn’t tell me he was living with someone, so I hope for his sake you’re not. This is a major violation.”

  “Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She glared at me for a couple of seconds, then reached into her pocket for something.

  Paranoid, I thought, Gun, and may have even backed away a little.

  Then she held up a badge and said, “Officer Singh. Can I come in, please?”

  All of the positivity I’d had earlier had vanished. I didn’t know how I’d ever believed my life was on the verge of getting better, but I guess this was typical. Without occasional surges of optimism, how would I repeat my mistakes?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I WAS FUCKED.

  Maybe an average person wouldn’t notice any traces of blood or other evidence of a murder in an apartment, but a cop?

  “Sure,” I managed to say. “Come in.”

  I stood aside and let her pass.

  For a crazed moment, I thought, I should probably kill her. While I had no intention of actually killing her, in the moment it seemed like the only possible way for me to avoid spending the rest of my life in jail.

  I shut the door.

  She glanced around, heightening my feeling of impending doom, then said, “Where’s Anthony?”

  “Anthony?” I asked. I’d heard her clearly; my thoughts were just scattered.

  “Yeah, Anthony,” she said.

  Why was she here to see Anthony? Was it possible this had nothing to do with me?

  “Um, he’s not home right now,” I said, fighting off the image that had appeared in my head of his body, bleeding out, on the bathroom floor.

  “So who are you?” she asked.

  “Jack. Jack Harper.”

  I was afraid she’d make the connection that I was the Jack Harper who was a person of interest in the Sophie Ward murder case. But I didn’t want to lie either.

  “He didn’t mention any friends named Jack Harper,” she said.

  “I’m his sponsor,” I said. “Well, ex-sponsor.”

  “How long you been staying here?”

  She hadn’t made the connection. Or if she had, she wasn’t letting on.

  “I’m not staying here,” I said.

  Now she was looking at the pillow and blanket that I’d folded and left out on the couch.

  “I mean, I crashed here last night, yeah,” I said. “But I’m not staying here. What’s this all about anyway? Did Anthony do something wrong?”

  “Yeah, he did somethin’ wrong. He was supposed to meet me this morning at a diner in Sunnyside, but he didn’t show.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, I know he was working on a case last night.”

  “Makes no difference to me,” she said. “He had a time scheduled, was supposed to report at nine a.m., and he didn’t show. When was the last time you spoke to him?”

  “This morning. Around nine-thirtyish.”

  “He mention anything ’bout meeting me?”

  “Actually I didn’t talk to him,” I said. “We texted. It was short. He didn’t say much.”

  “He say where he was?”

  “No. No, he didn’t.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Singh said. “This is another possible violation. Guy likes to play with fire, don’t he?”

  “Sorry, but I’m still confused,” I said. “Violation? What sort of violation are you talking about?”

  “I’m Anthony’s parole officer,” she said.

  Anthony had worn a tracking bracelet when I first met him, but I’d thought he was finished with parole.

  “He’s on parole?” I asked.

  “For another seventeen months,” Singh said. “He still has to make regular check-ins. I can take him in right now for this, so if you know something, know where he is, you better fess up.”

  “I don’t know anything, I swear,” I said. “I wish I did.”

  She glanced at her phone, then her gaze met mine again.

  “So what’s this about a case he’s working on?”

  I didn’t see the point in telling her. Maybe just paranoia, but after my experiences with Nick Barasco, I didn’t want to say anything incriminating.

  “Not sure,” I said, “but I know he expected to be out all night.”

  “Out where?”

  “He mentioned a case he was working on in Washington Heights.”

  “A case.” She sounded sarcastic. Then she asked, “Are there any drugs on the premises?”

  “Drugs?”

  “Heroin,” she said. “Any heroin here?”

  I didn’t want to tell her about the needles I’d found in his dresser drawer, as it would lead to a search of the entire apartment—including the bathroom.

  “No,” I said. “I mean, I have no idea, but I don’t think so.”

  “If I look you up, I won’t find out you’re his drug dealer, will I?”

  “What? No. I’m not a drug dealer, I’m a real estate agent.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “Well, I, um, don’t work at the moment,” I said. “I’m sort of in between jobs.”

  She looked at me like she thought I was full of shit.

  “Why do you think there’s heroin here?” I asked.

  “I’ve been suspecting that Anthony started using again,” she said.

  “Really?” I tried to act surprised.

  “Yeah, really,” she said. “He hasn’t missed an appointment yet, so maybe he’s strung out somewhere. Maybe he’s in the Heights—that’s where he sometimes goes to score.”

  Feeling like an idiot for believing anything Anthony had told me, I said, “Well, I don’t know where he is, but as soon as I hear from him, I’ll tell him to get in touch with you.”

  “Yeah, you better do that,” she said. After another long, suspicious glare, she added, “Have a nice day.”

  When she was gone, I was going to continue wiping down the place, then I thought, What’s the point? When the body was discovered, Officer Singh would report that I’d been in the apartment, so covering my tracks didn’t matter anymore. I just had to get the hell out of here.

  Then my phone rang, only a number I didn’t recognize displaying. Usually I let calls from unknown numbers go to voice mail, but I was so distracted that I picked up without really thinking it through.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Harper?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s me, Marcus Freemont. Your attorney.”

  “Hey.”

  I prayed he had good news for me.

  “There’s been a development,” he said.

  Development didn’t sound good.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Did you get a new criminal attorney yet?”

  “What’s going on?” An all too familiar feeling of dread was setting in.

  “Detective Barasco wants you to come in again,” he said.

  “What the fuck? Why?”

  “Calm down, it’s not a disaster. I mean, not necessarily. He has new evidence apparently.”

  “That’s insane. New evidence of what? I didn’t do anything!”

  “Where are you right now?”

  I hesitated, deciding there was no way I was telling him where I was. So cops could swarm the place? There was no way I was going back to jail.

  “I’m out,” I said.

  “Out where?”

  “Walking?”

  “I mean where’re you staying?”

  “What evidence? Tell me what the hell’s going on.”

  “It would be better if we could meet, maybe at my office.”

  Yeah, right. Meet at his office so he could tell Barasco I was there? That wasn’t an option either.

  “Just tell me or I’m hanging up on you,” I said.

  “Okay, don’t panic, but they found DNA. Your DNA on the victim.”

  “Of course they did,” I said. “I gave her mouth-to-mouth. Is that all they’ve got?”

  “Look, I only kno
w what he told me five minutes ago,” he said. “I don’t know where the DNA was from, or what in particular he’s referring to.”

  “It can only be from mouth-to-mouth!” I screamed.

  “You’ve gotta relax, man,” Freemont said.

  “You call me and tell me the cops want to bring me in for something I didn’t do and you want me to relax? I lost my job today, all right? I may’ve lost my fucking family. What the fuck have you lost?!”

  I’d screamed so loud my throat hurt.

  Remaining calm, he said, “Detective Barasco also said you tried to kidnap your kid from school today.”

  That son of a bitch school. The principal must’ve called Maria or maybe the police directly.

  “I didn’t try to kidnap him,” I said. “I tried to give him a hug.”

  “I told you to stay away from him.”

  “It was just a hug.”

  I heard his deep breathing. I pictured him with his eyes closed, trying hard not to get flustered.

  “Did you hire a criminal attorney or not?” he finally asked.

  “I told you, I can’t afford a lawyer. Look, I need time. Can you buy some time for me?”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Mr. Harper.”

  “What doesn’t work what way?”

  “If they have a warrant for your arrest, then you can’t just—”

  “Warrant? Who said anything about a warrant?”

  “Nobody did.”

  “Then why did you just say it?”

  “Because I assume that’s his next step, that’s all. He’s probably getting a warrant right now, or trying to get one.”

  “Then stop him,” I said. “That’s your job—you’re still my lawyer.”

  “There’s nothing I can—” He cut himself off, then said, “Look, maybe a friend or family member can lend you money for a good criminal attorney.”

  “You know I don’t have access to any money.”

  “Can you tell me where you’re staying?”

  “If you won’t represent me, I’m not telling you shit.”

  “I didn’t say I won’t represent you, man. I’m just being honest, telling you what I’d tell my brother if he was in your situation.”

  “You’d tell your own brother to turn himself in, if you knew he was innocent?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I would.”

  “I think you’re full of shit,” I said. “That, or you don’t believe I’m innocent.”

  I heard him deep breathe.

  “I’ll meet you, okay?” he said. “Come to the Manhattan South on 23rd. It looks much better in these instances if you come in on your own, if they don’t have to pick you up. And who knows? Maybe they won’t get a warrant, maybe it’s all some sort of bluff. But we won’t know that until we get down there and—”

  I ended the call.

  When he called back, I sent the call to voice mail. Then I went into settings and blocked his number.

  There was no way I was going to an interrogation room with Nick Barasco again, subjecting myself to that barrage of bullshit.

  I rushed out of the apartment, out of the building. I had one more option; then I’d be out of moves.

  I would’ve rented a Zip Car or called an Uber, but without a credit card that wouldn’t work. So I hailed a city cab.

  “White Plains,” I said. “As fast as you can get there.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “I DON’T GO to White Plains,” the driver said.

  Of course he did. What cabbie wanted to go to Westchester?

  “You have to,” I said.

  “No, I only have go to the five boroughs,” he said. “Get outta my cab.”

  “Look, this is an emergency,” I said.

  “I don’t care,” he said.

  There was no way I was going out. Hard to find another taxi, and the next driver could have the same attitude.

  “I’ll give you a big tip.”

  “Sorry, I don’t go to—”

  “How much do you think the ride will cost?”

  “Come on, buddy, just—”

  “I’ll pay you double the fare.”

  “It’s sixty dollars at least.”

  “Here, how’s one twenty?”

  I showed him the bills. This would only leave me with twenty-seven dollars from the money Anthony had given me. I’d have enough to afford a train ticket back to the city. After that, I had no idea where I’d get money for food or—oh, yeah—where I’d sleep tonight, but I’d worry about that later.

  “Okay,” the driver said. “Get in.”

  I didn’t really have a plan—well, a full plan—but I knew I had to do something to clear my name, make this whole thing go away. I’d go to Lawrence Ward’s house, use my phone as a voice recorder, somehow get a confession, and then replay it for the police. I knew the whole idea was risky, maybe crazy, but, seriously, at this point what did I have to lose? After all, I’d already lost everything important to me. Was it a better idea to wait for Barasco to bring me in again and rely on my out-of-his-league Legal Aid lawyer to fight whatever charges he tried to bring up against me?

  In White Plains, we passed houses—really estates—that had to go for five million or more. Then we reached Lawrence Ward’s house, which wasn’t the nicest in the neighborhood, but it was damn close. It was a contemporary, probably with four or five bedrooms on about an acre and a half. It looked even nicer than it had on Google Earth.

  After I paid the driver—he clearly wasn’t happy that I’d stiffed him on a tip—I headed along the stone walkway toward the brick stoop and the house’s main entrance. A gray-haired guy raking leaves in front of the house next door glanced at me, then resumed raking.

  Halfway along the walkway, I stopped and opened the voice memos app on my phone and pressed record. I had no idea what I would say to Lawrence or how I would get him to confess, but I wasn’t going to leave here without something to use against him.

  I continued up the stoop to the front door, rang the bell, and waited. I didn’t hear anyone coming. It was very possible he wasn’t home. I didn’t know why this thought hadn’t occurred to me sooner, but if he’d killed Anthony, he could’ve gone somewhere else afterward, maybe back to work.

  As I rang the bell again, I flashed back to when I’d arrived at the townhouse in Manhattan, maybe a minute before I’d discovered Sophie Ward’s body. If I could’ve returned to that evening in Manhattan, had a do-over, I never would’ve gone into the townhouse. I would’ve gone home, to my wife and son, where I belonged.

  Maybe coming here to confront Lawrence was an awful idea. My instincts were telling me to learn from my mistakes, to walk away. Better yet, run.

  But when had I ever listened to my instincts? Besides, it was too late to leave now. I heard footsteps approaching. A second later, the door opened.

  It was hard to tell in the picture I’d seen online, but I’d expected Lawrence Ward to be a foreboding, muscular guy. Instead, I was facing a wiry guy, about my height, with a neatly trimmed dark beard.

  “Yes, can I help you?” he asked.

  He didn’t sound like I’d expected either. His voice was high-pitched, whiney.

  “Lawrence Ward?” I asked.

  Then he squinted and said, “Wait, I recognize you. You’re him. You’re Jack Harper.”

  I glanced at his clothes—he was wearing dark jeans and an untucked gray dress shirt—to see if there was any obvious evidence that he’d killed Anthony, like blood on his sleeves, but I didn’t see anything. Of course, that didn’t mean he hadn’t showered and changed; he’d had enough time to.

  “I know you killed your wife and my friend, or had them killed,” I said.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said, and tried to close the door.

  I shifted, blocking the door, then forced my way into the house. I still didn’t have a real plan, but once you force your way into a stranger’s house, there’s no turning back.

  The foyer was practically the size of my ent
ire apartment, and beyond it was a dramatic winding staircase.

  Backing away from me, into the living room area, Lawrence had his cell phone out, and was saying, “I’m calling the cops.”

  “Go ahead, call ’em,” I said. “You can confess everything to them, too.”

  “No,” he said, “I’m calling them so they can arrest you for breaking into my house, you crazy son of a bitch.”

  I knew this wouldn’t sound great in my recording. I needed a confession, or something that incriminated him in the murders.

  “So, make the call,” I said. “I’ll wait here, and we can tell the police together.”

  Of course, as a wanted murder suspect, I didn’t want to chat with the police, but I also wanted to call Lawrence’s bluff.

  After mulling it for a couple of beats, all of a sudden he turned and rushed back toward the huge chef’s kitchen. There were a rack of knives on the counter. He grabbed the largest one.

  Wheeling back around toward me, he aimed the knife at me like a sword.

  “Interesting choice,” I said. “Since I just saw Anthony’s body with a knife in his back.”

  “You have no idea what you’re dealing with,” he said.

  Was that a confession? Sounded like it, but I needed more.

  Before I could get him to elaborate, he lunged at me with the knife. If I didn’t back away at the last moment, he would’ve stabbed me in the chest.

  “Hey,” I said, “what the fuh—”

  Lawrence swiped at me again, skimming my arm.

  I might’ve screamed, thinking, How’d this happen? A couple of weeks ago, I was a normal Upper East Side dad/real estate agent, hanging out with my son in playgrounds after school. Now I was fighting for my life with a crazed killer.

  When he tried to attack me with the knife again, I grabbed his forearm above his hand gripping the handle. He was much stronger than he looked, and it was easy to imagine him killing Anthony and Sophie. I saw the cold, evil determination in his eyes, and I knew he wouldn’t let me leave here alive. My only chance was to get the blade away and somehow subdue him.

  He was relentless. I was squeezing his arm as hard as I could, trying to keep him away, but I couldn’t hold him back. The tip of the blade was maybe two inches away from my neck. If I gave in, for just an instant, the blade would go into my neck.