by John Griffin
“Friederick is one of the people who robbed my father.”
“I know. That’s why this game is so fun for me. There will be all sorts of questions because of the lie about your wealth. New York City cop kills financier who stole tens of millions from his family. If they knew the truth, and that you still had the vast amount of the wealth, the headline wouldn’t scream so much, you know? I mean, it’s perfect. You appear to have every reason to kill him. But you wouldn’t appear that way if you were honest about your wealth. Your lie has given you the perfect, what do you cops call it? Motive. You’d have no motive if you were honest, but you can’t be honest now. Sometimes I just surprise myself.”
“I’m not going to kill a man in cold blood.”
“Not even to save Juanita?”
“Not even for that.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“We’re bargaining. You’ve already decided you are going to kill him. I just need to help you with that conscience of yours. I tell you what, how about you don’t kill him in cold blood? Friederick is already under investigation by the SEC. But he is also very famous in other circles.”
“Where?”
“Pedophiles.”
Solomon exhaled hard.
“Yeah, I hate them too. I think everyone does — except pedophiles. In any event, I’ve got the evidence. I’ll threaten to release it tomorrow morning. And you know what? I’ll tell him that if he kills himself, I won’t release it. It’ll protect his family from further shame. I will tell him he has got to jump off a building, and I won’t release anything. How does that sound?”
“Sounds easy for him. Don’t see how I’m involved.”
“That’s the thing about cowards — and I’ve never met the man, but I don’t know and have never heard of a pedophile who isn’t a coward. I get the feeling he’s going to chicken out. I think he’ll get as far as the ledge and just stand there. And they’ll call the fire department, and the police, and they’ll bring in a negotiator. Isn’t that protocol?”
Solomon thought about his new office and said nothing.
“Make sure he jumps, and I’ll tell you where Juanita is. All you have to do is be a shitty negotiator. You were a shitty cop — couldn’t find me, couldn’t save the last girl. I figured this would be easy for you. Just continue being shitty at your job, and this time you’ll save a girl’s life.”
Solomon said nothing.
“See how easy that is? Not cold blood. Warm blood. And the guy deserves it — believe me, he deserves to die more than me, and I know you want to kill me, so I can only imagine what you want to do to this guy. I kidnap girls, and I let them suffocate, but you know, they are in a chemically induced coma the entire time they are here except for the last few hours. They don’t even know they’ve been kidnapped. If you do this right and find Juanita, you can have her at home in bed safe and sound before she even knows that she was missing.”
“Why do you do it, then?”
“Oh, I’m not interested in killing anyone. I’m interested in buying people. In making them do things they don’t want to do. And I need leverage. And a guy like you, Sol, you can’t be bought — you’ve got more money than me, and I have a ton. So you can’t be bought. Not with money. But with Juanita? I own you. You’ll play the game.”
“You really are fucking crazy,” Solomon said, shaking his head.
“I’m imaginative. I guess this is the downside of imagination. Did you know, and I guess it is obvious when you think about it, but humans have the most highly developed sense of imagination? Some would say the only sense of imagination in the animal kingdom, but that sounds arrogant. In any event, that means great things — we can see an empty desert and build a city, or a flag and build a nation. We can draw pictures of things that are impossible in the real, physical world. But then, every once in a while, this imagination creates a separation from reality for someone. It creates a compulsion to do, well, to do what I am doing. It creates psychosis — which wouldn’t be possible if we couldn’t imagine something that was not real.”
“I guess you can’t help it.”
“I’m trying, Sol. I hope you find Juanita. I’ll be here. The game ends when one of us is dead.”
“I’d be happy to oblige.”
Psycho laughed. “I’m sure you would. Ensure Friederick dies, and you will get the chance.” Psycho paused. “Listen, great chatting, but I’ve got to go.”
“What about me?” Solomon asked.
“Oh, you’re fine. There’s no bomb in your car. Not my MO. I just needed your attention.” Psycho hung up.
Solomon took a deep breath and held it, and turned the ignition with his eyes closed. The car started, he put it in gear, and drove off.
That night Solomon lay asleep in bed. His house phone rang, and he picked it up. “Hello?”
“Hello?” a scared voice said.
“Juanita?” Solomon said, sitting up in bed and jumping out to get dressed as he held the phone to his ear.
“Yes,” she said. “Help! I don’t know where I am. I’m in a room. Hello? Help! Please, help!”
“Juanita, can you tell me where you are? Where you’ve been taken? What do you see?”
“Nothing. The room is dark. There’s plastic on the walls, oh God, please help!”
“Juanita, we’re going to find you. I’m going to find you.”
“Hello?” Juanita said, her voice cracking under greater panic. “Hello, are you still there?”
“I’m here, Juanita. I’m coming.”
“Hello? Are you there? Please help me!”
Solomon’s cell phone rang. He answered it. “Roud?” he said.
“It’s Marks.”
“Captain?”
“I’ve got an assignment. Jumper on Wall Street standing on a ledge. Fire will be on scene in five. Squad car waiting downstairs for you. You ready?”
Solomon looked at his phone and heard Juanita screaming. “Yeah,” he said. He got dressed and left his apartment.
As Friederick hit the pavement, Solomon’s phone buzzed. He looked at it. It was a text from Psycho that said, That was amazing, better than I could have imagined, and I have quite the imagination, and then provided an address. Solomon got into the squad car while everyone else was busy trying to control the scene. He put on the siren and shot off down the street toward the address.
He pulled up onto the sidewalk outside of the building and went up the outside stairs. The door was propped open. He drew his gun and went inside and then, gun pointing upward, ascended. A couple was coming downstairs. “Police,” Solomon said, motioning for them to get down the stairs behind him. They did so and left. On the third floor, Sol went into the hall and found apartment G. The door was slightly open. He kicked the door, and it opened into the living room. There was a green couch with a TV sitting on the ground in front of it and a desk with a computer and chair behind it but no other furniture. Sitting on the couch was a young man with clean-cut brown hair, brown eyes. He smiled.
“Sol!” he said. “So good to meet you. You should see this.”
Solomon looked at the television, gun trained on the young man. It was showing Juanita gasping for air lying on the ground.
“Where is she?” Solomon asked, gun pointed at Psycho.
“Oh, in the bedroom. No mystery here.”
Solomon shot the man twice. He went to the door. It was metal. He unlocked it and opened the door. There was another door behind it sheeted with heavy plastic. He ripped that open and went in. “Juanita?” he said, rushing to her side. She was unconscious. He drew out his cell phone and called for paramedics. He started compressions, and in six minutes the paramedics came bounding in. “Ignore the asshole in the other room,” he said as he stood and called them into the bedroom to tend to the girl.
“There is no one else here,” one of the paramedics said.
Solomon left the bedroom and went into the living room. His bullet casings were on the ground where he was
standing. His muzzle was still warm. But the kid was gone. There was no blood.
“Fuck,” Solomon said.
He sat on the couch as Captain Marks and a few uniformed police officers arrived.
Solomon sat in an interrogation room at the station. The staff psychiatrist was with him, observing. “That’s him, Lisa,” he said.
“Him?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Sure.”
“That’s Justin Graham. As in the Grahams,” she said.
“He said he had a ton of money when we spoke.”
“I remember. But there’s a ton of money. And then there’s New York royalty. These guys are as old money as American old money gets.”
“I know.”
“Well, let’s see what the prints turn up. And if Juanita wakes up…”
“A guy like this, with money like this, all he needs is a few hours, and he can disappear forever.”
“We’re going to wait for more evidence. You’re not the best witness right now. You can’t be all we go in with.”
“He’ll be gone in a few hours.”
“We are not going,” she said sternly.
“He’ll have bruises. Two of them on his chest. He had to have been wearing a vest.”
“Smart.”
“We can’t let him get away.”
“We won’t.”
Solomon stood in the corner, agitated. The psychiatrist sat nearby, observing. Lisa was seated next to Captain Marks and across from Captain Bell. “No prints?” Captain Bell said.
“None,” Lisa answered.
“And no other traces of him?” Captain Bell asked.
“None. Just the witness.”
“Who happens to be under psychiatric observation, who happens also to have, as far as the media is concerned, encouraged a man who stole millions from his family to jump off a building,” Captain Bell said.
“He’s off active duty,” Captain Marks said. “And I believe him.”
“I do, too,” Captain Bell said. “But I’m not the one we need to convince.”
“Just pick the kid up. He’ll have bruises. If he’s even still around.”
“You can’t just pick up a Graham,” Captain Bell said.
“Why not? Don’t we have the same justice system for rich people and poor people?”
Everyone laughed, even Solomon and the otherwise stone-faced psychiatrist.
When she stopped laughing, Captain Bell picked up the phone and called the chief. They exchanged a few words as Captain Bell explained the situation. When she hung up, she told the group, “He’s going to call the DA. The DA will contact the Graham family lawyer. They’ll ask for an interview, today. We’ll get one. That’s the best we can do.”
“It’ll be enough,” Solomon said.
“Go home,” Marks told Solomon.
“I want to see this through.”
“Go home,” Marks said again.
“I’ll call with an update,” Lisa said.
Solomon went to the hospital to visit Juanita.
Sol woke to a knock at his door. He was wearing his undershirt and his suit trousers. He walked barefoot across his apartment to the door. He opened, and Lisa asked to come in.
“Bruised?” Solomon asked.
“From shoulder down to his hip,” Lisa said.
“What?” Solomon asked.
“Skiing accident over the weekend. Majorly bruised. We have pictures. We couldn’t tell if any of them were from gunshot wounds.”
Solomon sat on his couch abruptly, falling with his hands going through his hair and ending with his right hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “He knew. He knew I’d shoot. He knew I’d hit him in the chest — so he wore the vest. He knew there would be bruising, so he went out…”
“And had an accident? He spent two days in the hospital, Sol.”
“He fucking knew.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong. But we don’t have enough.”
“I saw him there,” Solomon said.
“You saw a brown-haired, brown-eyed kid. You saw a quarter of the people in this city. That’s not enough. Not coming…” Lisa stopped.
“From me,” Solomon said.
“Not from you, Sol. Not from the kid of a guy who lost millions to Friederick.”
“He knew,” Solomon said. “And he won the game.”
Lisa touched his hand. “Next time,” she said, “empty a clip or two into his fucking head.”
For the next two weeks, Solomon worked with Greg and Roger on building a case against Justin. It did not work. They could not get another interview with him, and the family had shut down access to him, threatening to sue the city if they persisted in what their lawyer called a witch hunt. They were told directly by the chief to stop, so they stopped. Which was why Solomon jumped at the chance to meet Justin’s parents when he was invited.
A young lady welcomed Solomon into a dimly lit reception area. She was dressed smartly, in sharp, clean lines and expensive fabrics. There was a boardroom to the right. She offered him coffee, which he accepted, and he looked at the artwork on the wall, his eyes stopping at a Manet hanging over the reception desk, and then glazing over a Picasso over a couch in the waiting area. She led him into the boardroom. The table had seating for twenty. It was dark oak. The window overlooked Central Park. John Graham stood and introduced himself and his wife, Marjory, each extending their hand across the table to Solomon. John wore blue jeans and a white shirt. His wife wore a Chanel suit. A short, bald man named George Galaticos nodded and introduced himself as the family lawyer. He was wearing a sharp, chalk-stripe suit and an ox-blood-colored tie.
“Thanks for coming,” John started. “We appreciate, also, your discretion.”
“Thanks for calling,” Solomon said. “Should I have brought a lawyer?”
“No,” Marjory said. “No, George is here for us, not you. He’s family. For a family like us, your lawyer is family.”
Solomon nodded.
“I knew your father. Even met your grandfather just before he died,” John said.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Solomon said. “He knew most of you people.”
John chuckled. “Rich people?”
“Super rich people,” Solomon quipped. Everyone laughed.
“Well, he was one of us,” John said. “But I knew him mostly from the charity circuit. And, of course, he found a few pieces for me. Including one very special piece. Something nobody could find.”
“His specialty,” Solomon said. “What did he get you?”
“You already know,” Marjory said.
The assistant arrived with the coffee, leaving it in front of Solomon and then leaving. “The Manet,” Solomon said. “Went missing in the war.”
“He said he surprised himself with that one,” John recounted.
“In fact, I picked it out half-randomly from a book about lost art at a gala for the Met,” Marjory said. “I called it a bit of a challenge.”
“And it surprised him because it was not a challenge at all,” John continued. “He said he found it through entirely legitimate means. And it was not on the market — which simply meant we had to pay double what it was worth, and a very, very healthy commission to your father to convince the person to sell.”
Solomon laughed. “That probably means he did in fact find it, the buyer sold it to him, and he sold it to you. He probably made four or five times what he paid for it.”
John and Marjory laughed. “Worth every penny,” John said. “It’s worth ten times what we paid for it now.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Solomon said.
“How was his, what did he call it, dear?” Marjory said.
“His life’s mission,” John said.
“How was it? How many did he find?” Marjory said. “Before…”
“He died?” Solomon said. John and Marjory nodded. “Three,” Solomon said.
John and Marjory were crestfallen. “Oh,” John said
, looking at Marjory. “We had hoped it would have been more.” He looked at George. “For your benefit, George, Sol’s father … oh, Sol, can I tell the story?”
“Go ahead.”
“Sol’s grandfather, I suppose?” Solomon nodded. John continued, “He escaped from Germany — escaped the Nazis. But not before they had looted almost his entire family’s personal collection of art. And they had some masterful pieces, simply irreplaceable. Worth hundreds of millions today. But Sol’s father talked about these eighteen — out of everything they had and lost, these eighteen pieces that his father went to find. The grandfather found one in his lifetime as they reopened their family business, to tremendous success, in New York. And when he died, the grandfather, Sol’s father continued looking for the pieces. So he found three? Or the family had three?”
“We only had three of the eighteen,” Solomon confirmed.
“And where are they now?” Marjory asked.
“Liquidated,” Solomon said. “To pay the estate taxes for my father.”
“That’s a tragedy,” John said.
“Thanks,” Solomon said, leaning forward. “But I’m not here to talk art, am I?”
“No,” John said. “Of course not. Marjory and I, well, we want you to know we did not take anything you said about our son personally.”
“We understood,” Marjory said, “that you were just doing your job.”
“Why am I here?” Solomon asked.
John took Marjory’s hand. “Justin has run away,” John said. Marjory’s eyes glistened.
“When?” Solomon asked.
“Yesterday,” John said.
“That’s not really long enough to determine that he has run away. Could just be drunk at some girl’s house.”
“He left us this,” John said, sliding a USB key in a plastic bag over to Solomon. “It has taken us a week to figure out what was on it.”
Solomon knew what this meant. George took out a tablet and played the now familiar visualization of the weird shrieking audio sounds from the video clip on the USB key. It was a simple sentence written in pictograms and Greek letters. “I am Psycho,” Solomon read out loud. “Not unusual for a teenager. Maybe agitated by the process.”
