About Face

by Adam Gittlin

  Silence.

  “Buy that? If you’d like, I’m happy to keep going. In fact, I think there may have been a story or two involving some celebrities.”

  Gaston took a defeated breath and returned to the couch.

  CHAPTER 15

  NEW YORK CITY

  2013

  The cab comes to a stop on Thirtieth Street between Park and Madison. I pay and get out. As I hear the tires pull away from the curb behind me, I look up and notice the sky has gone gray. I look at number 166 and think Scott Green must have been a smart, sensible guy. Beautiful brownstone, no doubt a strong property as far as the buy. Great neighborhood, without great neighborhood pricing. Probably three or four million for the townhouse. Upper East or West Side would be double that.

  I don’t have a game plan, aside from assessing the situation once the front door opens and devising a game plan. The building is interesting. It looks to be prewar, but some of the architecture suggests a facelift around this last turn of the century. The basement and parlor-floor-level facades are limestone. Above them the building rises in red Philadelphia brick, four stories in all, and is topped off with a copper mansard roof.

  I head toward the wide staircase that gracefully fades left leading up to the porch and entrance. When I take the first step, I’m surprised when the front door opens. A sixty-something couple exits. All of a sudden I hear voices behind me. I turn around. Two men who appear in their forties are approaching the house.

  What’s going on?

  I keep moving so as not to look suspicious. The couple exiting leaves the front door a couple inches ajar for me. I push it open. Off to the left, just past the entrance foyer, is a small table with a tall candle burning on it. Beyond that I can see into the dining room. The long table is covered with cakes, pastries, bagels with all the trimmings, pitchers of water, juice, and coffeepots. Immediately I get it.

  Scott Green was Jewish.

  And I am apparently now making a shivah call.

  I slowly move through the downstairs floor. Unlike a party where people are looking to introduce themselves, socialize, this is obviously different. Everyone around me is keeping to their own, quiet, respectful. I decide floating around silently, looking to seamlessly blend in and find Green’s home office, is the way to go, but I’m apprehensive. What if the widow or some family member finds me snooping?

  I find my way into the living room, a high-ceilinged, warm room with a predominantly deep-red theme. The walls, the couches, the area rugs over the dark wood floor—all deep, rich red like blood at the exact moment it comes through skin. Old World, wrought-iron chandeliers with candles hang from chains above.

  It doesn’t take long to identify Green’s widow. She’s sitting on a plush, burgundy love seat. She’s a slight woman, pretty. Her hair is brown and straight past her shoulders. She’s wearing black pants, a matching black blouse, and comfortable black Tod’s Ballerinas on her feet. Her face is sad but shows a forced half smile as she speaks with some people offering their condolences. Her eyes are also dark, focused. She’s sitting gracefully, legs crossed. In the moment she strikes me as strong, confident, and sweet.

  I walk toward her, unsure of where to begin. Time is thin. I overhear the conversation she’s having end with, “No, really, I’m fine to get it myself. I need to stretch my legs.”

  I move in.

  “I’m truly sorry for your loss,” I say, extending my hand.

  She takes it. Her hand is tiny and even more delicate than I would have guessed. Though her grip is bordering on firm, I can’t help noticing I could crush her fingers like dried leaves.

  “I appreciate that,” she replies, now fully standing. She can’t be taller than four foot ten inches.

  Her expression can’t suppress her puzzlement.

  “I was wondering—” I continue, stepping left away from the immediate people around us as she takes her hand back, “if we might just speak for one second. You see—”

  “I’m sorry,” she cuts me off, “and I apologize if I should remember your name. There have been so many people coming and going, and, well, as you might imagine—”

  “Of course. I understand. This must be a really difficult time.”

  She’s waiting.

  “I knew your husband through work. We were involved together on the Freedom Bank Building. It turns out—”

  “You work at GlassWell?” she interrupts, her eyes hardening a bit.

  “No. I work with a different firm. We’re in the process of purchasing this particular property, and, well, if we might—”

  Whether it was the mention of knowing her husband from work, or this particular deal, her comfort level with my presence changes right before my eyes. In a blink, she’s pissed. Her face goes sour.

  “How dare you?” she seethes. “You have the nerve to just walk into my house? My husband’s house? Like all is fine and well?”

  Tiny Woman becomes aggressive. She starts toward me like she’s going to make a move. Like perhaps she’s going to reach out—for her, up—and grab my balls as hard as she can. Or take the closest hot coffee she can find and throw it in my face. I actually start backing up.

  “I apologize. I certainly have no intention of upsetting you,” I respond, my hands up slightly in front of me in a conciliatory manner. “If we can just speak for a second, maybe—”

  “Really? If we can just speak? You people—you people are responsible for him being dead!” she goes on, her voice elevated.

  I look around. We’re now making a full-blown scene.

  “You get the fu—” she starts before reeling in her voice. She comes even closer. “You get the hell out of this house,” she snarls.

  I take a deep breath.

  “Please. Mrs. Green, I know you’re upset. But if you’ll just take a couple moments to speak with me, I think—”

  A burly middle-aged guy stuffed into a suit a couple sizes too small walks over to us. He gently touches Green’s widow’s arm.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks her, but looking at me.

  “Everything is fine, Richard. This gentleman was just leaving.”

  She turns her back on me and starts off.

  Shit.

  Not good.

  I need answers. I need to see Green’s home office. I can take my chances and head upstairs. By the time the cops are on their way I’ll already have my answer, and I have no problem taking care of whoever gets in my way.

  But do I really want to cause all-out chaos in this poor woman’s home? With all she’s going through?

  And what if I find something useful?

  What if the pen really did come from here? What if I need this woman on my side?

  Less than three days.

  “Please,” I call after her one last time. “Please, Mrs. Green, if you’ll just speak with me maybe together we can—”

  She doesn’t even turn back. Burly Man puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “You heard her,” he interrupts.

  Running on sheer instinct, surprising both of us, I rip his hand off me.

  “Who the fuck do you think you’re touching,” I growl.

  Looking into his eyes, without a word, I let him know the next time he touches me, his hand comes off. Realizing I have already drawn way more attention to myself than I’d like, I turn and leave. I retrace my steps through the first floor, and open the front door. It’s raining now. Inside, next to the door, is an antique-looking, hand-painted umbrella holder. I grab the tallest one, a blue-and-white golf umbrella.

  I may be exiting. But I’m not going anywhere.

  I descend the staircase. At the sidewalk I turn right. After thirty feet, I stop. I face the Greens’ brownstone again.

  The rain is heavy, like a flash flood. The umbrella is huge. A smaller umbrella and I’d be getting soaked from the thighs down. A steady stream of heavy drops pelts the taut nylon overhead so hard it’s loud.

  My iPhone rings. I check the number and pick up.


  “What’s keeping you?” asks Cobus.

  “I’ve been in the bathroom. I went up to grab the file, and let’s just say I never made it back down. Must be one of those sandwiches they served.”

  I hate lying to Cobus.

  Then again—technically—every single word ever spoken between us has been a lie.

  “Ouch,” he responds. “Great timing. Not to be insensitive, but where’s your head at? You down for the count?”

  Jonah Gray?

  Ivan Janse?

  Down for the count?

  Are you serious?

  “Just a germ or two running through me. Not even close.”

  “Good to hear—because I need your eyes and ears. I’ll forge ahead with Arnon, then we can get back to the target tomorrow to review any items we still have questions about. I seem to be on schedule to meet Elman before dinner. You going to make it?”

  “Hard to say, but I’d rather play it safe. Why don’t I shoot for the restaurant at eight.”

  “Right then. Feel good. Get yourself back together. Ivan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you outside?”

  Shit. He hears the rain behind me.

  “Ran out to get some milk of magnesia,” I hear myself say, immediately wishing I could catch the words before they make it out the other end.

  Milk of magnesia?

  Really?

  This is the best I can come up with?

  Silence.

  “Gotcha,” Cobus responds after a pause. “Why not just have someone from the hotel fetch it?”

  “Tried that. They were taking too long, so I decided to handle it myself. No big deal.”

  “Got it. Get yourself right. See you at eight.”

  He’s gone.

  I wait outside for what feels like a month. The rain and umbrella keep me shielded from most passersby. I nod cordially to those who happen to catch my eye. I wait. The rain stops. Twenty minutes later it starts again. I look at the new rose-gold Perregaux strapped to my wrist—6:50 p.m. I decide though people will still be coming by for a few hours, many more in the last little while have gone than come. Sensing a lull in the action inside, I head back to the house and up the stairs.

  I look at the doorbell but opt for a semi-gentle knock. Nothing. I knock again. Just as I do, the door opens. It’s Green’s widow, and she’s shell-shocked by my presence. She goes to slam the door.

  I raise my hand and catch it so strong, so easily, there’s zero give. She’s so light she loses her balance a bit. We stare into one another’s eyes. Again—sour face. She’s searching for words she can’t find. She’s so pissed I think either the throbbing vein in her neck is going to explode or she’s going to scream as loud as she can.

  “Who do you think you are?” she pushes through her teeth.

  “Please. I need to speak to you.”

  “How dare you!” she forges on. “Do you have any idea—”

  “Your husband contacted me before he died,” I cut her off.

  I take a second and let her absorb my words. She’s confused. Her expression unwittingly softens.

  “Please,” I continue, “the last thing I want to do is cause you more pain. I’m not trying to hurt you. I simply need to talk to you.”

  A glimmer of the strength I saw in her face hours earlier when we met returns. She turns back into the doorway, surveys the immediate area inside, then closes the door behind her. She steps under the umbrella with me. A cylindrical sheet of water falls all around us; it’s like we’re in a fairytale standing under a waterfall but not getting wet. We’re face-to-face, my chin down a bit, her chin up.

  “What do you mean, he contacted you?”

  “He left me with something. A message, I believe.”

  I decide this is the better way to go than telling her I watched him splatter his own head on a wall. At least for now.

  “A message? I don’t understand. What kind of message?”

  “I’m not sure. And it might not have to do with you or your home. But I believe your husband—”

  “Scott.”

  “—Scott was trying to tell me something. Something that may be linked to his death.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “Did Scott have a home office?”

  We head back inside. As I guessed, the crowd has thinned for the time being. A couple of eyes from the dining room catch us as we cross the space, but nothing more.

  I follow her up the wide, wooden staircase, some of our steps in unison, others a far cry from alignment. Once we hit the second-floor landing, we make a left and head down a narrow, navy-blue walled hallway lined with beautiful black-and-white photos of nothing but trees and leaves. At the end of the hallway we come to a door.

  She’s hesitant to turn the doorknob.

  “I haven’t been in here since I lost him,” she says, her back still to me. “Some officers came by to have a look—”

  Shiny Dome Lovell, I imagine.

  “But I just pointed them upstairs.”

  “Would you rather I go in alone?” I ask.

  She pauses then gently shakes her head.

  “No.”

  She turns the knob. Past her I see the office. Like the one at GlassWell, it’s a complete mess.

  She takes a couple steps inside and stops. I walk past her. Outfitting the wall to my left, facing Green’s desk, is a large wall unit holding family pictures, a huge flat-screen in the center, stacks of what appear to be golf magazines, and paperweights commemorating certain real estate deals. The wall behind the desk is lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases stuffed with all kinds of materials. There are law books, real estate books and publications, you name it. I even see some novels in the mix—Silva, Coben, King, and Berry among other top names. I look across to the far wall where the windows are and walk over to them. Through rain-streaked glass I get a distorted look at a dark, soaked Thirtieth Street. I turn back in and face Green’s widow. Then I take a few steps toward the weathered, black leather chair behind the old, nicked, black-painted wooden desk and I stop. I gesture toward the chair.

  “May I?” I ask.

  “Sure.”

  I sit down in the chair and scan the desk. Just like his desk at GlassWell, it’s a heap of files, Diet Coke cans, rubber bands, Tums, pens, pencils, and newspapers. In the far center, at the rear of the desk’s surface farthest away from me, I notice a pen set holder. The base is unique. It’s a raw, rough, rectangular chunk of white onyx about ten inches wide, six inches deep, and an inch thick. It sits in a sterling silver frame holding it about a centimeter off the desk. On top are two translucent holders.

  Only one holds a pen.

  The one on the right.

  It’s silver.

  The butt, sticking up, is flat and engraved with the letter W.

  I move my eyes again to my host. Her eyes take in my gaze; she’s anxious. Without blinking, our vision locked, I reach into my inside jacket pocket and pull from it the set’s match. As she catches a glimpse of it, she covers her mouth. When she does, I feel my heart race. The nerve endings on my neck and arms have my skin so sensitive I want to rip my shirt off.

  I place the pen back in its rightful spot, an action that brings an unexpected sense of accomplishment. The pen has been on quite a journey, a cross-Atlantic-and-back odyssey that happened solely for the purpose of it finding its way back to this holder, right where it started, simply to tell me something. In the moment, I feel connected to Scott Green. And looking into his widow’s eyes, I feel infinitely sadder for him.

  A muffled choke, cry, sniffle thing escapes through her fingers. I look at the pens, the matching set.

  “D and W,” I say.

  “David and Wendy. Our children,” she responds. “Why do you have that?”

  “Because your husband gave it to me.”

  “When? Why?”

  I leave the first one word question alone. The less she has about me, or the situation, the better. But I need to o
ffer something to keep her believing in our newfound trust.

  “I have no idea,” I say, responding to the latter.

  David and Wendy.

  Their children.

  And?

  I don’t get it. I look around the desk again for nothing in particular, for no particular reason. Then again back at Green’s widow.

  “Are either of your children involved in real estate? Are they somehow connected to what your husband does?”

  Shit.

  “I’m sorry—did?”

  “It’s okay. No. Not at all.”

  “Why did you get so angry once I said I knew your husband through business?” I change directions.

  “Because his work is what killed him. Somehow, in some way, it’s because of those people at GlassWell he’s dead. My husband was a strong man, a man who loved his family. He would never take his own life. I don’t care what the authorities say. Somehow, in some way, they did this.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She takes a second and draws a deep breath while collecting her thoughts.

  “Scott always dreamed of being in-house counsel for a big player, for a company that really mattered in the big picture. Since he started at GlassWell the workload has always been immense. One deal that required his undivided attention ran into the next, but these last few months were different.”

  “Different? How?”

  “It all got to him unlike it ever had before. The stress, the calls. Scott always liked a cocktail, but lately it had been different. I’ve never seen him drink in all the years we were together like he had been lately. He was definitely trying to escape something.”

  “Calls? What kind of calls?”

  “Calls that would happen at odd times. Late, early, whenever. I’d ask who it was. All he’d do is bark at me ‘No one. Just work.’ All I know is he’d been literally having nightmares lately. He’d wake up sweating and shaking in the middle of the night.”

  My gut feeling tears my ass from Green’s chair. I lean forward and lift the penholder. It’s heavy, solid rock. I sit back down with it. I remove the pens and place them on the desk. I start to manipulate the base in my hands. I immediately feel the rock and sterling are two pieces. I separate them. I closely examine each piece. Nothing. I shake each piece, as if hoping to hear something rattle inside. Nothing.