by Andrew Gross
“Listen.” He smiled. “I’m not exactly a Wall Street guy. But somehow I don’t think this is how Morgan Stanley goes about collecting its debts.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The call came in at eleven-thirty that night. The limo had just dropped Saul Lennick at his Park Avenue apartment, home from the opera. His wife, Mimi, was in the bathroom removing her makeup.
“Can you get that, Saul?”
Lennick had just pulled off his shoes and removed his tie. Calls this late, he knew what they were usually about. He picked up the phone in frustration. Couldn’t it wait for the morning? “Hello.”
“Saul?”
It was Karen Friedman. Her voice was cracking and upset. He knew that something was wrong. “What’s happened, Karen?”
Exasperated, she told him what had happened to Samantha leaving school.
Lennick stood up. Sam was like a grandniece to him. He had been at her bat mitzvah. He had set up accounts for her, and for Alex, at his firm. Every bone in his tired body became rigid.
“Jesus, Karen, is she all right?”
“She’s okay….” Karen sniffed back a sob in frustration. “But…” She told him what the man who had accosted her had said, about wanting their money. The same two hundred and fifty million dollars as before. The part about how she was her father’s little girl.
“What the hell did they mean by that Saul? Was that some kind of threat?”
In his underwear and socks, Lennick sank down on the bed. His mind ran back to Charles. The avalanche he had unleashed.
You stupid son of a bitch. He shook his head and sighed.
“Something’s going on, Saul. You were about to tell me something a couple of weeks back. You said it wasn’t the right time…. Well I just put my daughter in my own bed,” Karen said, her voice stiffening. “She was scared within an inch of her life. What do you think, Saul—is it the right time now?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Archer and Bey turned out to be phony.
Just a name on a business card. A call to an old contact at Interpol and a quick scan over the Internet for companies registered in South Africa determined that. Even the address and telephone number in Johannesburg were bogus.
Someone was trying to extort her, Hauck knew. Someone familiar with her husband’s dealings. Even his trustee, Lennick, whom Hauck had spoken with earlier and who appeared like a stand-up guy, agreed.
“Incoming, Lieutenant!”
The call rang out from the outside squad room, followed by the low, pretend whoosh of a mortar round exploding.
“Incoming” was how they referred to it when Hauck’s ex-wife was on the line.
Hauck paused a second, phone in hand, before picking up. “Hey, Beth, how’s it going?”
“I’m okay, Ty, fine. You?”
“How’s Rick?”
“He’s good. He just got an increase in territory. Now he’s got Pennsylvania and Maryland, too.” Beth’s new husband was a district manager in a mortgage firm.
“That’s real good. Congratulations. Jess mentioned something like that.”
“It’s sort of why I’m calling. We thought we’d take this long-overdue trip. You know how we’ve been promising Jessie we’d take her down to Orlando? The theme-park thing.”
Hauck straightened. “You know I was sort of hoping she and I could do that together, Beth.”
“Yeah, I know how you’ve always been saying that, Ty. But, um…this trip’s for real.”
The dig cut sharply into his ribs. But she was probably right. “So when are you planning on doing this, Beth?”
Another pause. “We were thinking about Thanksgiving, Ty.”
“Thanksgiving?” This time the cut dug all the way through his intestines. “I thought we agreed Thanksgiving’s mine this year, Beth. I was going to take Jess up to Boston to my sister’s. To see her cousins. She hasn’t been up there in a while.”
“I’m sure she’d like that, Ty. But this came up. And it’s Disney World.”
He sniffed, annoyed. “What, does Rick have a sales conference down there then or something?”
Beth didn’t answer. “It’s Disney World, Ty. You can take her Christmas.”
“No.” He tossed his pen on his desk. “I can’t take her Christmas, Beth. We discussed this. We had this planned. I’m going away Christmas.” He’d made these plans to go bonefishing with a group of school buddies off the Bahamas, the first time he’d been away in a long time. “We went over this, Beth.”
“Oh, yeah.” She sighed as if it had somehow slipped her mind. “You’re right. I remember now.”
“Why not ask Jess?”
“Ask Jess what, Ty?”
“Ask her where she’d like to go.”
“I don’t have to ask her, Ty. I’m her mother.”
He was about to snap back, Goddamn it, Beth, I’m her father, but he knew where that would lead.
“We actually sort of already booked the tickets, Ty. I’m sorry. I really didn’t call you to fight.”
He let out a long, frustrated exhale. “You know she likes it up there, Beth. With her cousins. They’re expecting us. It’s good for her now—for her to see them once or twice a year.”
“I know, Ty. You’re right. Next time, I promise, she will.” Another pause. “Listen, I’m glad you understand.”
They hung up. He swiveled around in his chair, his eyes settling on the picture of Jessie and Norah he kept on the credenza. Five and three. A year before the accident. All smiles.
It was hard to remember they had once been in love.
There was a knock against Hauck’s office door, startling him. “Hey, Loo!”
It was Steve Christofel, who handled bunko and fraud.
“What, Steve?”
The detective shrugged, apologetic, notepad in hand. “You want me to come back, boss? Maybe this isn’t a good time.”
“No, it’s fine. Come on in.” Hauck swiveled back around, mad at himself. “Sorry. You know the routine.”
“Always something, right? But, hey, Lieutenant, you mind if I see that case file you always keep in here?”
“Case file?”
“You know, the one you always keep hidden on your desk over there.” The detective grinned. “That old hit-and-run thing. Raymond.”
“Oh, that.” Hauck shrugged as if exposed. He always kept it buried under a stack of open cases. Not forgotten, not for a second. Just not solved. He lifted the stack and fished out the yellow case file from the bottom. “What’s going on?”
“My memory’s a little fuzzy, Lieutenant, but wasn’t there a name that was connected to it somewhere? Marty something?”
Hauck nodded.
The person who had called up AJ Raymond at the shop, just before he’d left to cross the street. Something like Marty, his boss had said. It had just never led anywhere.
“Why?”
“This wire just came in.” Christofel came around and placed his notepad on Hauck’s desk. “Some credit-card-fraud division has been trying to chase it down after all this time. An Amex card belonging to a Thomas Mardy—that’s M-A-R-D-Y—was used to pay for a limo ride up to Greenwich. Dropped him off at the Fairfield Diner at a little before noon, Lieutenant. April ninth.”
Hauck looked up, his blood starting to course.
April 9. That was the morning of the hit-and-run. Mardy, not Marty—that fit! A Thomas Mardy had been dropped off across the street from where AJ Raymond was killed.
Now every cell in Hauck’s body sprang alive.
“There’s just one catch, Lieutenant.” The detective scratched his head. “Get this…. The Thomas Mardy the Amex card belonged to was actually killed on April ninth. In the Grand Central bombing. On the tracks…”
Hauck stared.
“And that was three full hours,” the detective said, “before the Greenwich hit-and-run.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
That night Hauck couldn’t sleep. It was a little after twelve. He
climbed out of bed. Letterman was on the TV, but he hadn’t been watching. He went to the window and stared out at the sound. A stubborn chill knifed through the air. His mind was racing.
How?
How was it possible someone had died on the tracks and yet hours later his card had been used to pay for a ride to the Fairfield Diner? To the very spot where the Raymond kid was killed.
Someone had called him right before he left to cross the street. Something like Marty…
Mardy.
How did Charles and AJ Raymond fit together. How?
He was missing something.
He threw on a sweatshirt and some jeans and slipped on some old moccasins. Outside, the air was sharp and chilly. He hopped into his Bronco. The block was dark.
He drove.
They had kept the protection on for four days now. He’d had a car in front of the house, another that followed the kids to school. Nothing had happened. Not surprising. Maybe whoever was bothering her had backed off? The temperature had already been turned up pretty high.
Hauck pulled off the highway at Exit 5. Old Greenwich. As if by some inner GPS.
He headed onto Sound Beach and into town. Main Street was totally dark and deserted. He turned right on Shore toward the water. Another right onto Sea Wall.
Hauck pulled up twenty yards down from her house. The rookie, Stasio, was on duty tonight. Hauck spotted the patrol car, lights out, parked across from the house.
He went up and rapped on the window. The young officer rolled it down, surprised. “Lieutenant.”
“You look tired, Stasio. You married, son?”
“Yessir,” the rookie answered. “Two years.”
“Go home. Grab some sleep,” Hauck said. “I’ll take over here.”
“You? I’m fine, Lieutenant,” the kid protested.
“It’s okay. Go on home.” Hauck winked at him. “I appreciate your doing the job.”
It took a final remonstration, but Stasio, outranked, finally gave in.
Alone, Hauck balled his fists inside his sweatshirt against the cold.
Across the street the house was completely dark, other than a dim light upstairs shining through a curtain. He looked at his watch. He had meeting with Chief Fitzpatrick at 9:00 A.M. A replacement shift wouldn’t be on until 6:00. He inhaled the crisp, damp air from off the sound.
You’re crazy, Ty.
He went back to his Bronco and opened the door. As he was about to climb in, he noticed that the drapes had parted upstairs. Someone looked out. For a moment, in the darkness, their gazes met.
Hauck thought he made out the faint outline of a smile.
It’s Ty, he mouthed, looking up. He had wanted to tell her that every time she called him “Lieutenant.”
It’s Ty.
And about your husband. What you’re feeling, what you’re going through now …I know.
I damn well know.
He waved, a wink of recognition he wasn’t sure she could even read. Then he pulled himself inside the Bronco, shutting the door. When he looked back up, the drapes had closed.
But that was okay.
He knew she felt safe, knowing he was there. Somehow he did, too.
He hunkered down in the seat and turned the radio on.
It’s Ty. He chuckled. That was all I wanted to say.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
April
And then it was a year.
A year without her husband. A year spent bringing up her kids by herself. A year of sleeping in her bed alone. An anniversary Karen dreaded.
Time heals, right? That’s what everyone always says. And at first, Karen wouldn’t allow herself to believe it. Everything reminded her of Charlie. Everything she picked up around the house. Every time she went out with friends. TV. Songs. The pain was still too raw.
But day by day, month into month, the pain seemed to lessen each morning. You just got used to it. Almost against your will.
Life just went on.
Sam went to Acapulco with her senior classmates and had a blast. Alex scored a game-winning goal in lacrosse, his stick raised high in the air. It was nice to see life in their faces again. Karen had to do something. She decided to get her real-estate license. She even dated, once or twice. A couple of divorced, well-heeled Greenwich financial types. Not exactly her type. One wanted to fly her to Paris for the weekend. On his jet. After meeting him the kids rolled their eyes and went “yick,” too old, giving her a big thumbs-down.
It was still too soon, too creepy. It just didn’t seem right.
The best news was that the whole situation with Archer gradually just died down. Maybe there was too much heat. Maybe whoever was trying to extort money from them got cold feet and gave up. Gradually things relaxed. The protection came off, their fears subsided. It was as if the whole frightening episode just went away.
Or at least that’s what Karen always prayed, every night as she turned off the lights.
April 8 there was a TV documentary airing on the bombing, the night before the one-year anniversary. Shot by some camera crew that had been embedded with one of the fire teams that had responded, along with footage from handheld cameras by people who just happened to be in Grand Central at the time, or on the street.
Even still, Karen had never watched anything about that day.
She couldn’t. It wasn’t an event to her—it was the day her husband was killed. And it perpetually seemed to be around: On the news. Law & Order episodes. Even ball games.
So they all talked it over—as a family. They made plans to be together the following night, by themselves, to recognize the real anniversary of Charlie’s death. The night before was just a distraction. Sam and Alex didn’t want to see it, so they hung out with friends. Paula and Rick had invited Karen out. But she said no.
She wasn’t even sure why.
Maybe because she wanted to show she was strong enough. Not to have to hide. Charlie had gone through it. He’d gone through it for real.
So could she.
Maybe there was just the slightest urge to be part of it. She was going to have to deal with it sometime. It might as well be now.
Whatever it was, Karen made herself a salad that night. Read through a couple of magazines that had piled up, did a little work on some competitive real-estate listings on the computer. With a glass of wine. All the while it was like she had some anxious inner eye fixed to the clock.
You can do this, Karen. Not to hide.
As it approached nine, Karen switched off the computer. She flicked the TV remote to NBC.
As the program came on, Karen felt anxious. She steeled herself. Charlie went through this, she told herself. So can you.
One of the news anchors introduced it. The show began by tracing the 7:51 train to Grand Central, docudrama style, starting with its departure out of the Stamford station. People reading the papers, doing crossword puzzles, talking about the Knicks game the night before.
Karen felt her heart start to pound.
She could almost see Charlie in the lead car, immersed in the Journal. Then the camera switched to two Middle Eastern types with knapsacks, one stowing a suitcase on the luggage rack. Karen brought Tobey up into her arms and squeezed him close. Her stomach felt hollow. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
Then on the screen, the timeline suddenly read 8:41. The time of the explosion. Karen looked away. Oh, God…
A security camera on the tracks in Grand Central captured the moment. A shudder, then a flash of blinding light. The lights on the train went out. Camera phones in cars farther back recorded it. A tremor. Darkness. People screaming.
Concrete collapsing from a hundred pounds of hexagen and accelerant—the fire raging near two thousand degrees, smoke billowing into the main concourse of the station and onto the street. Aerial shots from traffic helicopters circling. The same pictures Karen saw that terrible morning, all hurtling back. Panicked people stumbling out of the station, coughing. The deadly plume of black smoke bi
llowing into the sky.
No, this was a mistake. Karen clenched her fists and shook her head. She squeezed Tobey, tears flooding her eyes. It’s wrong. She couldn’t watch this. Her mind flashed to Charlie down there. What he must have been going through. Karen sat, frozen, thrust back to the horror of that first day. It was almost unbearable. People were dying. Her husband was down there dying….
No. I’m sorry, honey, I can’t do this.
She reached for the remote and went to turn it off.
That was when the footage shifted up to the street level. One of the remote entrances on Forty-eighth and Madison. Handheld cameras: people staggering onto the street, shell-shocked, gagging, blackened with char and ash, collapsing onto the pavement. Some were weeping, some just glassy-eyed, grateful to be alive.
Horrible. She couldn’t watch.
She went to flick it off just as something caught her eye.
She blinked.
It was only an instant—the briefest moment flashing by. Her eyes playing tricks on her. A cruel one. It couldn’t be….
Karen hit the reverse button on the remote with her thumb, waiting a few seconds for it to rewind. Then she pressed the play arrow again, moving a little closer to the screen. The people staggering out of the station…
Every cell in her body froze.
Frantically, Karen rewound it again, her heart slamming to a complete stop. When she got back to the spot a third time, she took a breath and pressed pause.
Oh, my God…
Her eyes stretched wide, as if her lids were stapled open. A paralyzing tightness squeezed her chest. Karen stood up, her mouth like sandpaper, drawing closer to the screen. This cannot be….
It was a face.
A face that her mind was screaming to her couldn’t be real.
Outside the station. Amid the chaos. After the explosion. Averted from the camera.
Charlie’s face.
Karen’s stomach started to crawl up her throat.
No one might have ever noticed it, no one but her. And if she had so much as blinked, turned away for just an instant, it would have been gone.
