by Andrew Kane
She ran upstairs into her bedroom and opened the closet. The box she wanted was on the top shelf and she needed to pull over a chair to reach it. She and Dan had kept it there so that Dan Jr. wouldn’t be able to get at it. She took the box down and began turning the combination – her wedding date.
She lifted out the gun and held it in her hand. A silver-plated .38 that Dan got her about three months after he was promoted to major crimes, one week before his first trial. He had taken her to the range and trained her well. Since their separation, she had continued practicing, figuring one day she might need it.
She opened the cartridge, checked the bullets and put the gun in her bag. If the cops were watching her, then she and her son could be in danger. And if that was true, she couldn’t depend on the cops.
chapter 18
Dan Gifford had just finished packing his briefcase and was about to leave the office for the evening, when an unfamiliar man appeared in his doorway.
Gifford was surprised; although the secretaries and clerks had departed hours ago, the security guards should have informed him that he had a visitor.
“Can I help you?” Gifford asked, keeping his calm. The stranger was a burley-looking sort, balding, with a face that was marred from what must have been a terrible case of adolescent acne. But the cheap gray suit was the real giveaway.
Gifford had been working with cops long enough to figure that this guy was either “on the job” or served some other such function yielding him enough clout to get past security.
“Daniel Gifford?”
“Name’s on the door.”
The stranger approached Gifford’s desk, reached into his pocket and pulled out an ID. “Richard Schwartz, federal agent.”
Gifford made no effort to conceal his displeasure. It was past 10:30 in the evening and Schwartz had caught him off guard. “And what exactly is it that I can do for the FBI, Agent Schwartz?”
The FBI agent appeared unflinching, as if he had anticipated a less than warm welcome. The turf wars, power games, mistrust and mutual lack of respect between feds and locals had a rich heritage. He glanced at the chair in front of Gifford’s desk.
“I wouldn’t bother to sit, Agent Schwartz,” Gifford said, eyeing his watch. “It’s very late, you don’t have an appointment and – to be quite honest – I’m anxious to get home.”
“Then I guess I’ll get right to the point. My office received a call from some bigwig at the Israeli consulate today. It seems two of your guys were rousting two of their guys.”
“Rousting? I would hardly characterize a mere conversation as ‘rousting.’ And since when is the FBI interested in this sort of thing? I thought complaints from international diplomats were matters for the State Department.”
“Normally,” Schwartz responded, as though he expected this question. “This situation is sort of… unusual.”
“Unusual? How so?”
“Let’s just say that these two Israeli gentlemen are working with the bureau on a very delicate matter.”
“The details of which you are, no doubt, unable to provide.”
“You know how it works.”
Gifford contemplated for a moment. “Tell me,” he said, “how did you get to me?”
“Easy, the Israelis got your plate number.”
Gifford wasn’t surprised. In fact, when he had driven past the Israelis’ car, he knew exactly what he was doing, hoping that whatever was going on would eventually come back to him. And here it was. “You’re right, Agent Schwartz, I do know how it works. And let me tell you how I work. First, you are presently in the offices of the elected district attorney of Queens County, and these offices pursue crimes as we see fit. We serve the people of this county, not Uncle Sam and his emissaries.”
“I understand all that, Mr. Gifford, and allow me to tell you what else I understand. First, your men were in Nassau County, not Queens County – that’s out of your jurisdiction. Second, you aren’t investigating any crime. Third, once we ran your plate and got your ID, your picture was very familiar to those Israeli gentlemen. You’ve been seen entering and leaving that building. We also did some investigating and we know about your problems. There’s a shrink on the first floor. Put one and one together and…” Schwartz stopped himself.
Gifford waited for more.
“Now, if you want my take on things,” Schwartz continued, “I’d guess your intelligence background makes you paranoid, not a bad thing to be in your line of work. So, I figure you spotted these guys, got curious, maybe thought they were after you or something, and so you launched a little independent investigation of your own. Just let me know when I’m getting warm.”
Gifford wasn’t rattled. He had already guessed that Schwartz knew all this. “What exactly is it that you want?” he asked.
“Look, Gifford, I’m not here to quarrel with you, only to tell you that this situation has nothing to do with you or your offices. I believe it would be best if you backed off and left it alone.”
“It being…”
“I can’t say.”
The two men stared at each other.
“I’ll certainly consider what you believe would be best,” Gifford said.
“Do that.”
The staring continued.
“And one more thing,” Schwartz said. “This whole situation is not for public knowledge. If that shrink, or anyone else in that building, were to get wind of our presence, it would compromise a federal investigation and it would have serious national and international consequences, to say nothing of the effect on your career.”
Gifford didn’t enjoy being threatened, but he realized that it was best he keep quiet until he knew what he was dealing with. “If you don’t mind, it’s late and I’m tired,” he said.
Schwartz simply nodded, turned on his heel and carried himself out of the office.
Gifford finally sat down in his chair, thinking about what had just transpired. He waited a few minutes, then picked up the phone and dialed Bobby Marcus’ home number. Marcus picked up on the third ring.
“It’s me,” Gifford said.
“Surprise, surprise. Who else would it be this time of night?”
After sharing the details of the meeting with Schwartz, Gifford said, “I want you to get everything you can on this guy. I want to know what he’s working on, where he lives, who he sleeps with, everything. And I don’t want him to get wind of it.” Gifford knew he was asking a lot of Marcus and that his tone betrayed his determination. He felt somehow violated by Schwartz and wanted to return the favor.
“Consider it done,” Marcus said.
chapter 19
Elizabeth Rosen wore a curious expression. She was accustomed to watching her father shave in the morning but never at night. Martin, oblivious to his daughter’s presence, struggled to steady his hand while he stroked the blade. He couldn’t recall ever having felt so nervous about a dinner date.
“Daddy, why are you shaving now?” Elizabeth asked.
“Ouch!” Martin yelped as the blade drew blood. He reached for a tissue and brought it to his cheek.
“You okay, daddy?”
He examined the wound in the mirror; it appeared superficial. “I’m fine, princess, just a little cut.” He ran water over it, but the bleeding continued. He opened the medicine cabinet and began searching for his styptic pencil. “I’m shaving because I have a special appointment tonight.”
“Why’s it special?”
He knew he should have anticipated that question. “Because I’m seeing a special friend and I want to look nice. Just like sometimes you want to look nice when you go to see your friends.” He found the styptic pencil, opened it, and moistened the tip.
She thought about his response and said, “Do girls ever shave?”
He hesitated, wondering how to answer that. It occurred to
him that his patients were often easier to deal with than a 4-year-old. “Yes, they do,” he began, “but usually only their legs.”
“Their legs?” She laughed. “Do any girls shave their faces?”
“None that I know,” he said.
“But some do,” she reacted, as if she knew this to be a fact.
“I suppose so,” Martin said, wondering what was coming next. Whenever these things got started, there was no telling where they might lead.
“When I get bigger, I’m going to shave my face just like you!”
In his mind, Martin chastised himself: What a great psychologist you are!
A lump formed in his throat as he placed the razor on the sink, rinsed his face, picked her up and hugged her. “When you grow up, you’re going to be very special,” he said, trying not to say anything stupid. “I’m happy that you love me so much that you want to be like me. That’s a good thing. But there’ll be a few things that you might not want to do, and shaving your face may just be one of them.”
“No, I’m going to, just like you!” She was adamant. “I’m going to do everything you do.”
He carried her into his bedroom, put her down on the bed, looked into her eyes and said, “If that’s what you want. But just remember, if you should change your mind, it’s okay with me.”
“I’m not going to change my mind.”
He simply kissed her on the forehead, smiled, then opened the closet to choose his clothes.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, princess?”
“What time will you be home?”
“Probably after you’re asleep.” He placed a pair of khakis on the bed with a light blue pinpoint oxford button-down shirt. He then reached for a reddish-brown Harris Tweed blazer. The weather report had promised a nippy night.
“Will you come in and kiss me goodnight?”
“Don’t I always?”
“I don’t know. I’m asleep.”
He took her head in his heads, kissed her again and said, “Well I always do, and I always will.”
“Even when I’m married?”
“When you’re married, I may not always be there to kiss you goodnight, but you’ll always be my little princess.”
“I don’t want to get married.”
“That might be another thing you’ll change your mind about.”
“No I won’t.”
“We’ll see.”
“I really won’t.”
“Why not?” He knew he shouldn’t have gone there the instant the words slipped from his tongue.
“Because I want to stay with you.”
“You will always be with me, even if you marry someone else. You see, it doesn’t matter where you are or who you live with. When you love someone, they’re always with you.”
A moment of silence descended as they each digested the exchange. Martin continued dressing and Elizabeth sat on the bed, watching, seeming to have run out of questions. He thanked God – or whomever he usually thanked at times like this – though he knew his reprieve was only temporary. There would be more to come, of that he was certain. But he wasn’t so sure how much longer he could get by with such clumsy answers.
For now, all he could do was turn his thoughts to the evening that awaited.
chapter 20
Martin Rosen was nervous as a schoolboy while he waited for Cheryl Manning to answer the door. He painted on a broad smile as he heard her footsteps from inside the apartment. The door opened and she was smiling back at him, her eyes on the bouquet of red roses in his hand.
“Hi,” Martin said, handing her the flowers.
“Hi yourself,” she replied as she took the roses and smelled them. “You shouldn’t have.”
She took his hand and led him into the living room.
The décor immediately struck him as very much “single woman on the run.” The floor was oak, natural finish, slightly worn and covered with a simple black-and-brown-checkered area rug. The couch and loveseat were cloth, ivory-colored, and separated by a faux redwood coffee table. There were two end tables flanking either side of the couch, same style as the coffee table, a few framed reproductions of famous paintings, and a wall-unit bookcase, also faux wood, with a TV, stereo, some hardcover books and a bunch of paperbacks. He noticed that there were no special ornaments or tchotchkes, nor any hint that someone had gone to great lengths to put all this together. It appeared somewhat expedient, though he had to admit that it somehow worked.
He glanced at the book titles, hoping they would tell him something about his hostess, but there seemed to be no particular theme to her interests. As one who enjoyed getting the jump on others by analyzing their literary proclivities, he found this somewhat unsettling. And there was something else about the collection that bothered him, something he couldn’t exactly put his finger on but felt was there. It was akin to what occasionally happened to him with patients: he would find himself uneasy, yet unable to pinpoint why.
Suddenly, he stopped himself, realizing what he was doing. Though it was as natural for him as breathing, it was a certain hindrance to his enjoyment. He turned around to her, the smile back on his face.
She gestured to the couch and they sat down. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. “I have wine or diet coke.”
“Wine sounds good.”
She got up, went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle and two glasses. “I guessed you would opt for the wine,” she said. “I’m not always right, but it is good to know that some things are predictable.” She put the glasses down on the coffee table and began tearing the wrapper from the top of the bottle.
“By the way, what’s that I smell cooking?” He inhaled deeply, smiled and said, “Veal Marsala?”
She kissed him gently on the lips. “Such a smart man.”
He looked at the label on the bottle, assuming it would be a Merlot, and was surprised. “Pinot noir?”
“You like?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve never had it before?”
“I’m a Scotch man, remember?”
“Yes I do. That’s why I got the wine.”
He looked at her curiously.
“To celebrate new things,” she explained.
“Aha.”
She handed him the bottle and corkscrew. “Would you like the honors?”
“If you insist.”
She smiled as he struggled with the corkscrew, but eventually he got it.
“Not bad for a beginner,” she said.
“I’m a fast learner.”
She took the bottle from him, poured some into a glass and handed it to him. “I believe it is the man’s job to taste the wine.”
“A bit chauvinistic, aren’t we?”
“A traditionalist.”
“Oh.” He smirked as he held the wine up to the light. “I suppose this is how they do it.”
She giggled.
“Nice color.”
“You know the difference?”
“Shh, I’m trying to look sophisticated.”
He brought the glass to his mouth, took a sip and swished the wine with his tongue. “Not too shabby,” he said, surprised at how pleasant it was.
“I’m glad you like it.” She poured for both of them.
“To new things,” he said, holding out his glass.
“To new things.”
Watching her drink was sensual, as was everything about her. He sat back on the couch, sipped the wine and said, “Who are you, really, and what were you before? What’d ya do, and what’d ya think, huh?”
“That line sounds awfully familiar. I think I’ve heard it in a movie.”
“You have, have you?”
“I thought we said no questions,” she said with a grimace and the best Swedish ac
cent she could muster.
“Did we?”
“That’s not your line! Come on, you know what comes next.”
“I do?”
She frowned.
“Yes, I suppose I do,” he admitted.
“Well then, let’s hear it.”
“Okay,” he said, raising his glass. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
She chuckled. “That’s more like it.”
“But in all seriousness, I do have questions.”
“As do I.”
“How about we each reveal one thing to the other,” he suggested.
“But it has to be significant,” she added, feeling an inexplicable urge to step out of role and say something honest. Quite dangerous, she knew, and a complete violation of all the rules, yet with him she knew she could. And the most unnerving thing of it was that she wanted to.
“Okay, you first,” he said.
“Not a chance. It was your idea, so you start.”
He hesitated. “It has to be significant?”
She nodded. “Your idea.”
“All right.” He thought for a moment. “My parents are Holocaust survivors who have never met their granddaughter.”
“That sounds like a quite a story.” It was a story she already knew, yet hearing him say it somehow moved her in a way she hadn’t anticipated.
“It is, and the rest of it would probably take the entire evening and then some.”
“I understand,” she said, sensing his discomfort. “We said one thing, and that certainly qualifies.”
“Thanks,” he said, doing a somewhat poor job at hiding his relief. “Now you!”
“Me?” She was pensive, realizing that she was about to break her cover. A small break, but a break nonetheless. And there was nothing she could do to stop herself. “Me too,” she said.
