by Adam Gittlin
“And this was necessary? Cleaning up my dead guy?”
“It was.”
“Why?”
“Because I have more experience with this type of disposal. I mean, I was a little bit rusty after all these years, but—”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“I was a young fool, Jonah. A boy working for the government looking to uphold the only thing I knew. I killed many men. Women too, tortured them. The only way I was able to carry on doing so was by never allowing myself to be in the position to hurt a child. One day I was in that position and I couldn’t go through with it. Before I knew it, knowing I would soon be hunted by my own, I was fleeing my family and country for the United States. Because I knew, if I kept my mouth shut, it was a place I could start over again in peace.”
“Which is exactly what you did,” I deduced, “in anonymity. But the only way it would have worked, based on your background, was if the government never knew who you were or that you were even here.”
“The police can’t know who I really am, Jonah. You’re not the only one with secrets. We all have secrets.”
***
I shot through the lobby of my apartment building.
“I don’t want any visitors today,” I shouted back to Clarence just before jumping on the elevator. “Not L, not my partners, no one.”
Just as the cab doors were about to close I heard my doorman calling back.
“Does that include your father?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Then the doors closed.
Once inside my apartment I locked the door and again secured a chair under the knob. I heard the pitter-patter of a charging Neo. I fell to my knees. He jumped into my arms. I started to cry. Wriggling with happiness to see me, he licked away my salty tears. I remember feeling so alone, like all I had in the entire world to hold on to was this six-pound fluff ball. I had to do everything I could to keep from inadvertently squeezing the life out of him.
Life was no longer just about money, partying, deal making, and women. Life had become about life. And death.
Paranoia wasn’t far. Soon it tackled me from behind. I put Neo down and immediately headed past the kitchen and living room toward the main hallway, eyes peeled. Just as I did my cell rang. It was Krissy.
Instinct pulled me out onto my terrace in a boiling rage. I wound up to throw the fucking phone, once and for all, over the side of the building and out into the city below. Enough of the stalker. Enough of the games. My mind was filling up with too many complications and scenarios, too many facts and questions. I wanted to smash the goddamn phone into a million little pieces so it would finally stop ringing. I wanted to somehow start trimming away the fat and finding my way to the meat of everything that was going on.
I ran to the edge of the balcony and launched the phone as hard as I could nearly throwing my arm out of the socket. Only I never opened my fist. Throwing the phone overboard from the sinking ship that was becoming my life wasn’t the answer. It couldn’t be the answer and I knew this. In truth, I had no idea at this point what even the next five minutes of my life held for me. I couldn’t be caught with absolutely no means of communication. And I still didn’t know if Krissy had anything to do with Pop’s death or not. In short, I just didn’t know. About anything.
My mind was consumed with my father and the barely begun letter on his desk. “There had once been a time when”—what? Could it possibly have been that in some twisted way, for some twisted reason, he was trying to protect me?
I headed back inside, leaving the terrace doors open, and sat on the edge of my bed. Again I saw Pop. Not just an image of him, but a collage. One that spanned my whole life. His smiling face that beautiful spring day in Philly when I graduated from college. His frustrated scowl after ruining his tie with a drop of coffee. The fury in his eyes when he fought with another patron over a seat at Phantom of the Opera before being escorted out by the police. His elation when he closed a terrific deal. There were as many fond memories as there were shitty ones, but up until this point they had been our memories. Now they were just mine.
The next dilemma was Pop’s burial. Because of my situation, the last thing I needed was some huge funeral. It made me an easy target. On the other hand, everyone would expect a big funeral. To minimize such a ceremony when there would, no doubt, be many looking to pay their respects would only cast further suspicion. I wasn’t ready yet for what happened to my father to become public knowledge. At least not without a plan. The more I looked at all of the facts, the more I stressed. I was afraid to leave. I was afraid to stay.
I was pulled from my stupor by something rubbing against my shin. It was Neo, holding a mini-tennis ball in his mouth, asking me to play. I grabbed a pillow, fell back on the bed, placed the pillow over my face and screamed as loud as I could.
I don’t really remember the rest of Saturday. More than anything, I wanted so badly to speak with L, Perry, Jake, the people in life I cared most for, had always trusted. I only wanted to explain everything to them, what made sense, what didn’t, but by this point I couldn’t rule out anyone’s involvement. If they weren’t part of this then I had already possibly put them in harm’s way. I realized that letting them in on the game could pose a serious threat to all of our lives. The second I fucked with the continuity, normalcy of my life the greater the chances whoever was pulling the strings would be onto me or know I was onto them. I couldn’t trust anyone. I was completely alone.
Chapter 37
Sunday
Neo barked. I jumped.
“Who’s there?” I asked, sitting up, gun cocked.
I was alone with my hangover. I looked to my right and saw Neo standing just inside the doorway to the apartment. It was dark outside, stormy, and the sky had just opened up. The rain was loud, slapping against the building. I looked up through squinted, bloodshot eyes into the gloomy sky. The water felt cool as it covered my skin.
Neo was simply yelling at me to come inside. I looked at my watch. It was one p.m. even though it looked like dusk. I lifted myself up only to remember that the previous day my father had been murdered. Just as my legs started to wobble, a bone-jarring clap of thunder came roaring from above. I jumped inside and scooped up Neo who was now barking more excitedly.
I closed the doors behind me, muffling the sound of Mother Nature’s fury, and headed for the bathroom. I placed Neo on the marble countertop so he could lap at the water running from the faucet while I brushed my teeth. I put my gun down on the brushed stone surrounding the sink. Neo licked it.
The questions kept relentlessly attacking. Where did Angie fit into any of this? Or my father? Or Derbyshev?
My head instantly began throbbing again then I remembered something. The dream from the other night, the one where I unsuccessfully shot myself in the head. When I pulled the trigger for a second time I woke up. For some reason, to think of it now, it felt hopeful. It suddenly made sense.
I fled the bathroom only to return seconds later. Without another thought I emptied my vial of coke into the toilet and threw my weed in on top of it. For a second I watched the sticky green plant float on the water’s surface as the fine white powder dissolved underneath. Then I flushed it all down.
How was I to get my life back? Could I get my life back? I needed answers, and I needed them fast.
I dropped off Neo at Lucy’s, the old, crazy animal woman who owns the other penthouse apartment in the building. She lives alone with two dogs and three cats. Neo would be safe with her. Finally, I gathered the things I’d need in the next twenty-four hours.
My briefcase. My gun. My cell. My nerve.
I peeled the tarp back over the vehicle, going from front to back, letting the fabric fall on the ground. The vehicle, a white, 1973 Porsche 911 Carrera RS—Limited Edition, with the word ‘Carrera’ written across the bottom of the door in orange cursive, was truly one o
f the meanest, most vintage cars you could possibly imagine. Both the exterior as well as the interior of the car were designed with one focus in mind, to win. It was simple and aerodynamic, functional and goal-oriented. Inside there was nothing fancy, just the necessary dials for gauging the machine and the road along with the stick and clutch. The single amenity was a Nakamichi stereo system. In short, within the world of muscle cars and racing, this vehicle was a fucking animal.
Sorry we weren’t heading to Lime Rock Park for a little racing, our usual weekend destination, I placed my briefcase on the passenger seat, jumped in and closed the door behind me. Immediately I slid the key into the ignition and tried to turn the engine over. She wanted to start but needed another go. I turned her over for a second time and she finally rumbled steadily, forcefully to life. I rolled out of the garage. Once I emerged from underneath the building, and crept up to the curb, I looked both ways nervously. I tore out into the dark, rain-soaked city.
I had one stop to make before starting my solitary journey. The townhouse. The memory of seeing my father’s handwriting on Pangaea-Man’s note was gnawing at me, and I couldn’t for the life of me fend off a feeling. Even though Pop was harsh toward me at times, I truly believed deep down he loved and respected me. He wouldn’t have tried to screw me like this.
My wipers swept water furiously as I headed uptown. Before going any farther, I knew I needed to reach out to those who would be looking for me, if they weren’t already, and kill the possibility of an FBI search party hunting me. I placed my cell’s hands-free receiver in my ear and dialed L.
“Jonah!”
“Yeah, L. It’s me.”
“Jonah, I’m so fucking sorry about what happened. I came by the apartment but Clarence —”
“I know, I know. I told him to —”
“You told him to what? Jonah, tell me where you are. I’ll come to you.”
“No L. It’s not that simple right now and I don’t have time to talk.”
“Jonah, what the fuck is going on?”
“I’ll fill you in. Really, I promise. But for now I just need you to trust me and do me a favor. Can you do that?”
“Of course. Whatever you need. If it’s about the funeral, I can—”
“Carolyn’s on the funeral arrangements. Campbell’s on the Upper East Side, Tuesday morning.”
“Then what?”
“I’m going to disappear for about twenty-four hours so I need you to call Perry. Her cell number is nine-one-seven, five-five-five, six-six-four-one. Tell her I’m okay and that I want her to have PCBL issue a statement on my behalf that notes the funeral as well as the fact I would appreciate everyone, press included, to allow me to grieve privately. Then tell her I’ll be in touch shortly.”
I stopped at the corner before making a right on Pop’s street. I slowly moved up, just enough to see the whole block. Toward the other end a cop car securing the crime scene area had its head and tail lights on. I waited, hoping it was doing a quick drive by. Fifteen minutes later I was still waiting.
There was no telling how long they’d be stationed, and I wasn’t exactly in an inconspicuous car. I looked at my watch. I looked around the drenched intersection.
“Fuck!” I yelled as I slapped the steering wheel with both hands.
I needed a reason to approach the house. Or they needed a reason to leave. I threw all kinds of unlikely scenarios around, but nothing seemed plausible. Then my eye caught the rearview mirror. More importantly, I noticed the pay phone on the corner behind me.
“Nine-one-one Emergency Services,” answered the calm, female voice.
The rain had picked up again. The small umbrella I kept in my car could barely shield me. My heart was beating so fast I could barely talk, but whether I liked it or not I was all in. To not say a word could have meant squad cars at this very pay phone within minutes.
React.
“Emergency Services,” she said again.
“Yes, I...I just wanted to report what I think may be a robbery that’s going on,” I responded in an altered voice, one I hadn’t planned on but now had to run with.
“A robbery, sir?”
“That’s right. Over on Lexington.”
I gave her a location only a couple of blocks east.
I hung up, jumped back in my car, watched and waited.
“Come on,” I whispered, hoping the cops in front of the townhouse would be closest to the scene, “come on.”
Sixty seconds later the patrol car pulled away.
I pulled into the garage, pressed the button on the remote and watched in my rearview mirror as the door lowered and sealed me from the city like a tomb. I got out and headed for the door that led from the garage inside. As I did my mind started to ask the same question over and over. “Where does it make the most sense to look first?”
It wasn’t long until I was standing in Pop’s closet. I felt conflicted standing in his personal space, as if I were intruding. I wanted to feel reassured from the sight of his perfectly pressed suits and bold, beautiful ties. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
The few-minute search through his drawers and racks proved fruitless, so I moved onward to the study. Once there I immediately went toward the safe, got down on one knee and swung open the book door. My mind had become consumed with the possibility I had missed something in the second chamber. But as I started to turn the dial it dawned on me he never would have kept anything in there he didn’t want me to see. I often borrowed his watches, so he knew I used the safe.
I closed the book door, jumped up, and took the seat behind Pop’s desk. I did a quick once-over of all of the papers on top. Everything seemed to pertain to business. Once again I checked out the letter he had started to me to see if I had missed anything. I hadn’t.
I gently pulled out the top drawer, the one that was front and center. I started to rummage through, pushing aside everything from Eclipse gum and highlighters to a calculator and a staple remover. Nothing. I closed the drawer. Next I pulled out the bottom drawer on the left side, which was a file drawer. I started to thumb through each individual file. There was one for townhouse maintenance issues/activity, one for Mattheau, one for me, and everything in between. Then my eyes fell on the second to last file in the drawer. The one simply labeled ia.
The last item in this particular folder was an ordinary sheet of nice, letter-sized, expensive white stationery. It didn’t seem to have the usual typed or handwritten letters on it that I would have expected. It looked as though it was serving as the backdrop of a drawing like those lining the staircase. I lifted the file from the drawer to have a better look. When I did, a key ring fell from it onto the desk.
I picked it up. There must have been ten, maybe a dozen keys on the simple metal O-ring. No two were the same and they looked old, antique. A couple wore a little rust. They were small, unusual, and unlike any I had ever seen.
“What the hell—”
I scanned my brain, but simply had no point of reference. Pressed for time I carefully placed them in a corner of my briefcase. Then I moved on to the piece of paper that had originally caught my eye.
It was a typical Ia drawing. Charcoal strokes supremely lifelike and shaded to perfection. Only this picture wasn’t of any animal from the wild. It was of an infant. I turned the sheet of paper over. There was a note. “Look close. Closer than you’ve ever looked before.”
I turned the drawing back over. Like the first time I looked, I saw a baby. There was a half exposed rattle poking in at the top border. I moved the paper to my face and forced my eyes, straining them. I started at the top of the kid’s head. Honest gaze, square shoulders, something was familiar though this was a face barely formed. I held it a little farther away and tried again. Nothing. Frustrated I looked up. My eyes stopped on the magnifying glass standing with the pens in the Tiffany cup.
I stood up and laid the drawing flat on the only vacant part of the desk. Once I gauged the dist
ance for maximum clarity between the glass and the rendering, about two inches, I began my inspection slowly moving again from head to toe. The picture was now so close the form was gone. All I saw as I moved the magnifying glass was paper dusted with charcoal, a charcoal swath allowing a trace of paper to peek through or something in the middle. It didn’t take long to reach the baby’s feet. Still nothing.
I stood up. Look closer, I reminded myself.
Closer.
See what you’re not seeing.
I leaned over again. I locked in on the item I had barely noticed, the item easy to miss, the rattle. I returned the glass to the paper.
The immaculate shading left no doubt the shiny barbell-shaped noisemaker was sterling silver. The center of the rattle, or the part of the handle showing just where it entered the picture, was engraved with the initials A.G. Initials that meant nothing to me. I brushed this aside and kept looking. I noticed letters woven silkily into a mid-range gray hue running along the inside of the bulbous end. They were a hint darker than the gray surrounding them, but very clear. They formed a single word.
“Ours,” I said aloud.
I scanned the entire piece but found nothing more. I pondered this word and saw something else I had missed. The year 1974 was written in the bottom right-hand corner. A surge of nausea jumped me. Something felt wrong.
I heard my father’s voice.
“What she does is paint, draw, and sculpt,” I remembered him saying just nights earlier at The Four Seasons. “Never signs her work. Just dates it.”
The room started spinning. I was scared to move. Scared to breathe. I frantically scoured the drawing, both front and back, for someone named Ia’s signature. I didn’t find one.
I dashed from the study and stopped on the main staircase, squarely in front of the first Ia piece entitled The Zebra in the Brush. I looked for a signature. What I got was the year 1980 written in the bottom right-hand corner. I moved down the stairs and checked all four pieces. No Ia. Just years.
I headed upstairs, dazed, and fell back into the chair. Forget it being unreasonable, Galina Zhamovsky and Ia being one in the same seemed downright impossible. Only until I paired the cryptically placed “Ours” with the initials on the rattle.
