The driver stops in front of my building and my concentration is shattered. I shake it off as I ride up the elevator. Chances are, I came back to my place and promptly passed out.
Don’t let them get to you, I think, steeling my resolve. Don’t question yourself. Whoever killed my father, that’s what they want.
————————
I’m deep into a container of Chinese food and a beer when my intercom buzzes. It’s Joel. I’m still wearing the suit pants I wore at the luncheon this afternoon with no shirt. I’m holding the container of noodles, digging them out with chopsticks when I meet Joel at the elevator doors in the foyer.
“What’s up, man? Want a beer?” I say. “Egg roll?”
“No,” Joel says. He’s staring at me like he’s never seen me before.
“What’s going on?”
Joel sits at my dining room table and I join him. Something’s off about his energy. He has this shifty gaze, and he keeps putting his hands in his pockets only to immediately take them out. I stick my chopsticks in the noodles and push the container to the side.
“You have some information?” I ask, suddenly serious. “You give me their names. I want to get to them before the cops do.”
Joel clears his throat. He pulls out a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket.
“I need to ask you a question.” His gaze rests just below my eyes. “And I need you to answer honestly.”
My teeth clench on their own accord. “Ask it.”
He flips open his notepad and rests the pen on the front page. “Where were you September eighteenth, between the hours of two and six am?”
The muscles in my core tighten. “Are you fucking with me?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You want my alibi?”
“It’s best to have it on record. So, yes.” Joel still holds the tip of the pen on the paper. The ink is leaking out, causing a black blot to form.
“I was at the club. You know, the one in The Village.”
“The Aviator?”
“No, nobody goes there anymore. Club 64.”
Joel looks a little relieved as he jots this in his notepad. “That’s good, a public place. They probably have cameras, a record of your credit card. What time did you get there?”
“You expect me to remember this stuff?”
“They’ll expect you to remember this stuff.” His eyes bore holes into the notepad.
I grab the notepad and throw it across the room. “Why, Joel? Am I under suspicion?”
Without an inkblot to stare at, Joel finally looks into my eyes. “I’ve explained how I work. I need to gather information first, then I can tell you everything and you won’t have to doubt it. So work with me, Jack. What time did you get to Club 64?”
I roll my eyes, but acquiesce. “Probably around eleven-thirty, something like that.”
Joel patiently walks across the room to where his notepad lies fluttered open on the floor. He comes back and jots this information down.
“And what time did you leave?”
I hit a complete blank. That answer lies somewhere in my blacked out consciousness. Joel sighs when he sees me struggling to remember.
“Okay, think back to that night,” Joel coaches. “You get to Club 64 at eleven-thirty pm. Then what do you do?”
“Head to the VIP room. Start ordering bottles.”
“Okay, good. Good.” Joel nods as he scribbles. “How long did you stay in the VIP room?”
“All night. Until the place started closing down. They stop serving drinks at two am.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Did you go home after the bar closed?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“I hooked up with a waitress.”
Joel’s face brightens. “Do you know her name? Her number?”
The image comes to my mind of CHLOE (FREAK) being swiped from existence.
“Her name’s Chloe. That’s all I know.”
“That’s good,” Joel says, like I should be proud of myself. “That gives me something to work with. What time did you, um, finish up with Chloe?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
I slam my fist on the table. “I wasn’t checking my watch when I was snorting cocaine off of her ass.”
Joel’s expression turns slightly gray. “What’s the next thing you remember?”
I try, but I can’t remember. It just isn’t there. I want to lash out, punch my fist through a wall. But I’m not angry, just confused, helpless. I shake my head. Joel’s shoulders fall.
“I’ve had my guy keep an eye on Detective Simon,” Joel explains. “There’s no official murder investigation regarding your father’s death. But after today, there might be.”
Joel explains that a cell phone recording was submitted today. It reportedly shows me entering Father’s office building during the time the murder could have taken place. There’s a team working to confirm the authenticity of the video, and if it’s really me. If they can do that, they can get a warrant for my arrest.
I leave my body while Joel explains this. I float high above the ceiling, watching the cold, numb husk of my soul. A prick of panic at the base of my spine brings me back down to earth.
“I didn’t to it,” I say, gruffly.
“I didn’t say you did,” Joel says. “But if this evidence checks out, it won’t look good.”
“Are there any other suspects?”
Joel shakes his head. I tap my foot against the floor, slowly at first, then gradually faster until I’m at a manic pace. The chair groans beneath me.
“So, we go trial, and we beat it,” I say.
“You don’t want this to go to trial.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? If they find you guilty, you could get life in prison. The best case scenario is a plea deal, and as your lawyer I’d urge you to take one if offered.”
I drop my chin to my chest. “A plea deal? Meaning I plead guilty.”
“Look, it’s a compromise. You’ll get five years, ten tops. It’s not the rest of your life.”
“Go to prison for a crime I didn’t commit? While the real killer gets away?”
Joel cocks his head to the side. “Jack. You don’t remember that night. Can you say for a fact what you did or didn’t do?” He leans forward on his elbows, his boyish features turning stern. “You know how you get with all the booze and coke and something makes you angry. I’ve seen you almost kill a guy with your fists, all for standing too close to your car.”
“You fucking prick,” I spit.
Joel raises his hand. “Listen to me, Jack. You don’t want to go to Rikers. Not for five years, not for life, not even for one day. Do you know what they’d do to a guy like you in Rikers?” His eyes dart to the side, and his voice gets low. “All I’m saying, if there’s any chance-“ He doesn’t say it outright, leaving me to fill in the blanks. “You don’t want to get caught up with the criminal courts. Once they have you, that’s it. They’ve got you for good. You go to trial, and your fate rests with twelve idiots who will put you away just to taste your privileged blood.”
“What would you do if you were me? Remember, I’m innocent.”
“Doesn’t make any difference. All that matters is the evidence.”
“So what are you suggesting?”
Joel’s face hardens, and the tone drops in the room. “Run.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Is that your best professional advice, counsel?”
Joel shakes his head. “I’m not speaking to you as an attorney. I’m speaking as a friend. It’s all circumstantial, but if this tape checks out, the detective will have himself a nice solid case.”
“I’ll go to trial, prove them wrong.”
“I’ve been on trials, Jack. Given enough evidence, a jury will decide you’re guilty from the very beginning, and it’s nearly impossible to change their minds.”
I bury my face in my hands. �
��Run? That’s fucking ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous? You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. I’ve seen men and women chewed up and spit out by the system, plenty of whom I know are innocent. It will ruin your life.”
“So I should just leave my life behind?”
Joel shrugs. “Why not? You have the resources to start a new one.”
A calm descends over me. I give Joel a cool-eyed stare. “I’m not running. I don’t run. That’s not how my father raised me.”
Joel taps his pen against the notepad, studying me intensely. Finally, he sighs, and puts away the notepad. “Then we have to figure out what happened that night. Listen to me, are you absolutely sure that we won’t find something we don’t want to know?”
I take a moment to consider the question, going deep within myself to the dark places that I know are there.
“I just want the truth,” I say.
Joel’s Adam’s apple quivers. “We better act fast. The clock is ticking. I recommend you have everything in place, though. Financials, logistics, just in case you need to go.”
I want to grab him by the collar of his shirt and order him to never talk about running again. But Joel is just a friend who’s looking after me. And I know it’s a good idea to cover my ass, just in case.
******
We decide it’s best for Joel to go to Club 64 to find Chloe. While he does that, I pay a visit to my therapist. She’s been clamoring to hear from me, so she fits me in right away when I call. I don’t tell Joel about this. The answers surrounding my father’s death could be locked away deep in my psyche, and if they are, it only points to my guilt.
Dr. Sheila Wainwright is in her mid-forties, but it’s obvious she’s always taken care of herself. Her body is trim and tight under her blazer and skirt. She’s letting her hair go gray, rather than bother with dying it. She has an electric streak of shiny gray hair that she tucks behind her ear. I’ve been seeing Dr. Sheila since my late teens. Within five years, I gave up on trying to seduce her. The good doctor was having none of it. With the possibility of sex out of the picture, I find myself being more honest with her than with anyone else, even myself. Especially myself.
I sit in her aggressively feminine office, staring through the purple orchid on the table separating us to her crossed legs beneath that red skirt. I feel dirty on the stark white fabric of the couch. It’s a feeling that disgusts, and compels me.
“How are you holding up?” she asks, her pink painted lips pursed in concern.
“Can we just get right to it?”
She raises her hands, showing me her palms. “By all means.”
I rest my elbows on my knees, folding my hands between my legs. “I need to recover some lost memories. I need you to do the hypnosis thing.”
Dr. Sheila pauses before answering, her lips tightly pursed.
“We’ve been over this. I’m not doing hypnosis with you again. Not since the last time-”
“This is important. This is my life.”
“What’s this regarding?”
I take a page from her book, and fall into a cold, deep silence. During this time I consider how much I should tell her.
“This is confidential, right?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“Even if you suspect a patient has done something illegal?”
Dr. Sheila’s pause is unusually long. “Depending on the severity of the crime in question, in most cases, yes, I’m legally required to alert the appropriate authorities.” She knits her eyebrows tightly. “Legally required. That’s all. I care more about my patients than the guidelines. Did you commit a crime, Jack? You can tell me. You’re safe here.”
It’s hard not to doubt her sincerity, maybe because I really want to believe her.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
The words hang heavily between us. I realize Dr. Sheila is waiting for me to speak, so I continue.
“Have you heard that there are some questions surrounding my father’s suicide?”
“I’ve read that in the tabloids. I didn’t know if it was true.”
“The night my father died, I can’t remember where I was. I don’t have an alibi.”
“They want you to have an alibi?”
“Apparently. I think I’m a suspect.”
Dr. Sheila sucks in through her teeth. “What evidence-“
“Video evidence. It shows me going into my father’s office building during the time of his death. It’s not been confirmed yet. But something tells me it will be.”
Dr. Sheila jots something down, then dons her professional, objective expression. “Walk me through what you remember about that day. Everything.”
I tell her about going to Club 64, Chloe, the coke. Dr. Sheila doesn’t bat an eye at this. She’s heard much worse from me.
“Between two and six am,” she says, consulting her notes. “I take it your father was still spending the night in his office. Did you know about that?”
“I knew he never stopped. We just stopped talking about it. Mother stopped mentioning it.”
“And he was continuing to sleep with his secretaries?”
“One can assume that.”
Dr. Sheila lets out a hollow “Hmm,” which echoes uncomfortably in my head.
“Were you still angry about him cheating on your mother?”
I shrug. “I was used to it, more or less. She was too.”
Dr. Sheila places her notepad on the table in front of her. She does this when she’s about to get serious, so I brace myself, reminding myself not to get angry.
“Time to get honest with yourself, Jack. I was treating you when you first found out about his infidelities. Your parents almost divorced. Your family name was dragged through the mud. You were picked on at school. It was traumatizing for you.”
In an unprecedented move, Dr. Sheila comes and sits next to me on the couch. She takes my hand. I’ve never been this close to her before. She smells like lilacs.
“Do you remember what you told me, about that night after the golfing tournament?” she says.
My palms immediately start to sweat, but Dr. Sheila doesn’t drop my hand.
“Yes,” I force out.
“Let’s go back there, re-examine it, without putting you under hypnosis. Where are you, what are you feeling?”
I swallow hard, then stare straight ahead, concentrating on the purple blooms of the orchid.
“I’m at home,” I start. “I’m in my bed, and I’m feeling… angry.”
She pats my hand. “That’s good, Jack. Why are you angry?”
“Because at the golf tournament, my father got to walk around carrying an old-fashioned and laughing with his friends like nothing was going on, while everyone whispered behind my mother’s back.”
“How do you deal with the anger?”
“I can’t stand it. It turns my stomach into tight knots. It takes over my brain. Every venomous thought I have feeds it even more. There’s so much adrenaline rushing through my veins, I’m shaking. It’s like I’ve been infected. I can’t escape it.”
“Keep going,” Dr. Sheila says, gently. “What happens next?”
“I go into my parents’ room and watch my father sleeping. The only reason he sleeps at our house that night is because he’d gotten so drunk at the tournament. I realize I’m holding a knife. I don’t know how I got it. I don’t remember going to the kitchen to get it. I immediately think of killing him, how easy it would be to sink this knife into his gut. I’ve seen our cook butcher chickens with that knife. The thing is fucking sharp. It would cut through him like butter.”
Dr. Sheila jerks her hand away. I realize I’ve been squeezing it.
“But you didn’t do it,” Dr. Sheila says. “You walked out of that room with no one harmed.”
“I just woke up, like I’d been sleep walking, and came to my senses. I bolted out of there before anyone could see me.”
At this point Dr. Sheila stands, stepping back to put a little distance
between us.
“If you hadn’t woken up, as you say, what do you think would’ve happened?”
The scenario goes through my mind, one that I’ve replayed over and over again. A trickle of blood beneath the tip of the knife, Father’s flesh yielding to the sharp blade, the guttural sounds he’d make in his sleep. As always, I feel a pang of regret for not going through with it. The “waking up” sensation I described was really me realizing how easily I’d be caught.
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t have hurt him. I never would’ve killed my father, or anyone.”
Dr. Sheila smiles, pleased with herself. “Then, there’s your answer.”
“There it is.”
————————
Joel meets me at my place that afternoon. He doesn’t look happy.
“Did you know you’re banned from Club 64?” he says, taking off his blazer.
I take a sip of my gin and tonic. It’s too weak, so I dump in more gin. “Good to know,” I say.
Joel scoffs. “Now’s not the time to be calm. You should be freaking the fuck out.”
I swat the air. “Not my style.”
Since my session with Dr. Sheila ended, I’ve been steadily sipping strong, mixed drinks. This is my routine after a particularly rough session. I need the alcohol to keep the haunting thoughts at bay. Whenever the booze isn’t enough, I pop a Xanax, letting the bitterness dissolve beneath my tongue.
“I couldn’t find the waitress,” Joel says. “The manager doesn’t remember her, but he says they have a lot of waitresses coming in and out.”
I pop the wedge of lime into my mouth and chew it whole, skin and all. Maybe Chloe doesn’t exist. Maybe she’s just another ghost sent to haunt me.
Joel’s face darkens as he continues. “The bouncer said you trashed the bathroom. You pulled the sink from the walls. He had to kick you out.”
It’s always strange hearing about your antics during a blacked out night. I can’t quite square what I’m hearing with my reality. Joel throws his hands up in frustration.
“Does any of this ring any bells? Dislodge some memory deep inside of that thick skull?”
“Easy,” I warn him, and that’s all it takes.
Assassin In My Bed Page 22
