You know the answer, you coward. It’s what you’ve wanted all along. To pull the revolver out of its holster and kick in the front door and stick the barrel in his mouth and make him beg for his life and in exchange for his life you’re going to make him tell you what happened.
The only person on this earth who knows what happened in that bar that day is only a couple of miles away. You missed your chance this morning and this evening. Tomorrow morning, you do it right.
But a few vodka rocks later the same voice says why not do it now.
Jim remembers walking around the sleeping form of his oldest son on the couch, the house being quiet when he steps outside, climbing behind the wheel, putting it in reverse, dinging the car parked behind him, cursing. And after that…
No fucking idea.
“Can we keep this off the record?”
This is the first time Jim’s heard a journalist speak these words. Noon Sunday at Metropolitan magazine and the offices are deserted. Lights out. Desks unmanned. Except for Sarkissian’s desk, of course. He’s dressed in Sunday casual—a long-sleeved polo shirt, khakis, and sneakers. Just a family guy who had to dart back to the office to pick up some notes he forgot. At least, that’s what he probably told his wife back in Narberth.
“This is a murder investigation,” Jim says.
“This is also my marriage.”
“That’s between you and your wife,” Jim says. “’I’m here for Kelly Anne Farrace. So tell me, how long did you two have a relationship?”
Sarkissian leans back in his chair, exasperated.
“And like I said, can this please stay off the record?”
Jim spreads his hands as if to indicate his agreement. But things like on and off the record matter to journalists, not cops. “I just want the truth.”
Michael Sarkissian is thirty-nine, handsome, a Penn grad, and happens to hold the keys to Kelly Anne Farrace’s career.
“We started out as a mentor-and-mentee thing, you understand? She wanted to break into writing for the magazine, and I oversee the department and feature wells. She would pitch me stories, and I’d tell her how to improve them, turn them around to make them surprising…that sort of thing.”
Jim nods. Sure. His head has stopped throbbing, but he could easily vomit at any moment. He keeps both feet flat on the floor and his movements to a minimum. Sarkissian probably reads this as Jim being Stern Cop.
“We became friends, and…well, after a while, we lapsed into something else. Something I regret now, looking back on it.”
“Lapsed?”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen. Neither of us did.”
Outer Jim nods like he understands, projecting total empathy. Inner Jim knows better. Come the fuck off it. You didn’t lapse. You wanted to know what it would feel like to stick your cock in her mouth. Or up her ass.
“We weren’t exclusive,” he adds.
“Well, sure. You’re married.”
“No, I mean, she dated other guys.”
“I don’t suppose,” Jim says, “she told you any names? Because I’m trying to put together a list of people who were closest to Kelly Anne.”
“No, she never mentioned names—just that she saw other people. She didn’t want there to be any misunderstandings.”
“Were there?”
Sarkissian shakes his head and squints. Of course not.
“Did you have sex with Kelly Anne the night before her death?”
Horrified look. “No.”
Jim knows he’s lying. Tells all over his face. Was it a quickie in the coat room at Circa, or was it back at her place?
“Well, someone did,” Jim says, then proceeds to share with the editor the findings of the coroner. Jim hates himself for enjoying the conflicted expression that washes over the editor’s face.
Is this on or off the record, Mr. Sarkissian?
Jim drives back home because Claire wants him home. No, not wants; she pretty much demanded it. Despite the fact that he’s got to bring Aisha up to speed, and he’s eager to run with this Sarkissian thing, and he’d really love to see how Terrill Lee Stanton is enjoying the Lord’s Day…
(Don’t you remember, Jimbo?)
Sundays, however, are sacred to Claire. “You’re Jewish,” he once joked. “Shouldn’t it be Saturday?” But Claire didn’t think that was very funny. Bad enough he had to go downtown to interview the editor at noon. And yes, she understands that homicide cops work around the clock. The job is never really over. But Claire made him promise that whenever possible—if such a thing was in his power—he’d leave Sundays open.
“One day you’re going to wake up and this house will be empty. And you’ll be sorry for all you missed.”
It’s not that he doesn’t want to be home. It’s just that he doesn’t know how to just be at home, with nothing else tugging at his brain.
Audrey wants to play Sorry! and happily sets up the game pieces on the dining room table. Jim takes a seat next to her, his stomach still roiling. Claire smiles at them as she passes, headed for the kitchen. She loves seeing her husband and children play.
The pawns move around the board and Audrey takes peculiar delight in sending Jim’s pieces all the way back to the beginning. “Sor-RY, Daddy!”
Most board games drive Jim insane. He doesn’t see the point. You’re just going through the motions. This one especially. But Audrey loves it so he shuts up and plays. He considers this his penance for the heavy boozing of the night before.
He wishes he could ask his father how he did it. The whole family thing. Granted, his pop was a career patrolman. He wasn’t obsessing over homicides. But even toward the end of his career, when they assigned him to the worst district in the city, Stan Walczak was there. He was present. Drinking tomato juice and laughing with Jim before school in the morning. Waking up before he got home from school to fix him a snack. Taking his boy to Phillies games. (When was the last time you took your kids to a ball game?) His pop never talked about cases. Somehow, he left it all in the squad car.
“Your turn, Dad,” Audrey says.
Jim flips the next card. The whole time, he’s only half-paying attention, which is probably why she’s kicking his ass. But he can’t help it. He tries to dig up the shattered memories of the night before but it’s painful, difficult.
He’s starting to wonder if he did something horrible like go outside and climb behind the wheel of his car and then drive to the halfway house on Erie Avenue.
(You made him beg, didn’t you, Jimbo?)
The phone rings once and boom—Audrey darts away from the dining room table and runs to the wall to pick up the receiver. She loves being the first to answer the phone. Or push an elevator button. Or reach the front door. She’ll elbow you in the face to get there before you.
“Daddy, it’s some lady for you.”
Jim tries hard not to smile. “Is it Detective Mothers, sugarpop?”
Audrey shrugs. How is she supposed to know? It’s just some lady.
“Thanks, Aud.” Jim puts the phone to his ear. “Detective Walczak.”
“I can’t believe you. This is your suspect?”
Jim’s guts turn cold as he recognizes the voice.
“Hi, Sonya.”
Claire raises an eyebrow, swirls the spoon in her coffee impatiently. Jim mouths the word work.
“Why are you hassling Mike Sarkissian?” Sonya is saying. “Do you really want those two scumbags who raped and murdered Kelly Anne to go free? And are you prepared for Metropolitan to crucify you in their feature well?”
Jim supposes the mayor has assigned Sonya to this case full-time now. Round-the-clock care and feeding of the homicide unit on the weekend before Election Day. Hound every movement, question every decision.
“Is Sarkissian a friend of yours?”
Staś is pretending to play with the last of his spaghetti, but he’s listening, too. Jim realizes he probably should be taking this call in another room.
“Please,” Sony
a says. “He’s a spoiled little brat. Believe me, if he had anything to do with this murder, I’d be doing naked cartwheels in Rittenhouse Square. But he didn’t. You’re wasting your time. And pissing off someone who can give us a lot of grief.”
Outer Jim’s been patient so far. The mayor can be an important ally. God knows Jim’s superiors would want him to play along like a good little soldier. But clearly, Outer Jim isn’t working with Sonya. So it’s time to give her a little Inner Jim. He takes the cordless phone and walks into the kitchen with it, out of his family’s earshot.
“Sonya,” Jim says in the sternest whisper he can manage, “I need you to back off.”
She doesn’t fuss or protest. Jim gets the sense that she likes this. She just made him flinch.
Deep breath now. You let Inner Jim show his face for a second, but that’s okay. Tuck him back in bed and let Outer Jim handle it from here. “Sarkissian was with Kelly Anne eight hours before she died,” Jim says. “Far as we know, he’s the last person to see her alive. I can’t ignore that.”
Sonya sighs. “You really know how to fuck a girl up the ass, don’t you, Detective Walczak.” Interesting choice of words, there.“Look, I know Mike—he had nothing to do with this. He isn’t the type. Only reason he didn’t step forward is because he didn’t want to become the news and wreck his marriage.”
“I’m not investigating his marriage. I’m trying to find out what happened to Kelly Anne.”
“Can I give you a piece of advice, then?”
“What’s that?”
“Tread lightly.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there was someone else I know who was in close proximity to Ms. Farrace eight hours before she died. By chance, did you ask Michael where he took his fact-checker for drinks? It’s a really popular spot in town right now—perhaps you’ve gone there yourself recently. Say, Wednesday night?”
And then all of a sudden Jim understands what this phone call is really about.
Lost Audrey
May 10, 2015
Audrey has no choice but to take the 66 and the El back down to Center City, to Eighth and Spruce, to Pennsylvania Hospital. Dad is probably already there, and she has no car. Nobody can pick her up. Stop thinking about yourself for once, Audrey, Jean tells her, kids screaming in the background. Look, I gotta go. Yeah, sure, bye, Jean.
None of this makes sense.
On the bus, Audrey reads the news on her phone—short mobile update from a local TV website.
Police Officer Staś Walczak, the son of retired captain James Walczak, found dead in a Center City hotel room, reportedly from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He was 37 years old.
They mispronounce both names, making it sound like a guy named Stass Wall-Zack killed himself instead of her brother.
The 66 takes forever, crawling up and down Frankford Avenue, wheezing diesel as if unsure if it can make this one…last…trip. Audrey tries Cary again to see if he’s learned more but he’s not picking up. Hesitates, then tries her dad. No answer there, either.
But back on the Web, a blogger has put together the coincidence that occurred to Audrey right away: two Philly cops named Walczak, killed almost exactly fifty years apart.
Audrey cuts through the throng of reporters and TV cameras outside. The uniform stationed at the door stops her, but she explains that she’s family. Uniform doesn’t believe her. Audrey pulls out her Houston driver’s license, except it says AUDREY KORNBLUTH. Exasperated, she tells the uniform that her brother is dying in there. “You want to stop me? Fucking shoot me.” Audrey pushes past him. The doors swish open for her.
Unfortunately, a TV camera catches this exchange.
Fucking wonderful, she thinks.
Everyone’s in the main hospital lobby, even though there’s nothing they can do except wait.
The first person she sees is Cary, who is a red-faced teary wreck. He won’t even look at Audrey. Jean comes over and halfheartedly apologizes for being short on the phone, but everyone is so shocked, and they wanted to get here right away. See, when he was rushed here he was still alive, and the doctors tried to save him, but—
Audrey interrupts. “He’s dead.”
Jean nods.
No no no. This doesn’t make any sense.
“Is what they’re saying true? That he—”
Jean leans in close and whisper-barks at her. “Don’t say that. We don’t know what happened, okay?”
Audrey doesn’t need her shit right now. She needs to find out what really happened.
Will has his arm around Claire, who won’t look at Audrey, either.
“Hey, Mom. I’m so sorry.”
Will nods. “Thank you, Audrey.”
Wasn’t talking to you, asshat.
“Mom?”
But Claire just shakes her head. Buries her face in Will’s overcoat. Apparently she can’t deal with Audrey right now. Never mind that maybe Audrey could use a fucking hug or something.
Bethanne is somewhere else—maybe in the room with Staś. Audrey has never been her biggest fan, but she wouldn’t wish this kind of suffering on anyone. Jesus, their kids. Their bratty little kids…
And the Captain is in the corner, talking to a pair of detectives in suits. He does turn to look at Audrey, just once, just for a second, but it’s enough. It’s an eye-burst of rage and betrayal and hurt. Audrey’s the one who flinches first.
She should march over there and demand some answers. She’s his baby sister, after all. Not some grubby stranger who wandered in off Eighth Street.
Of course now her brain is flooded with memories of Staś when he wasn’t a complete dick. Holding her arm to guide her the first time she wore roller skates. Picking her up and carrying her inside the first time she fell and bloodied both knees. Covering her ears when loud sirens blasted down the street. Staring down jerks on the block who made fun of her.
What has happened in the time since their last conversation—which, all things considered, was about as chummy as they ever got?
Audrey scans the waiting room again, looking for an opening from anybody (besides Jean) who might want to talk to her. None comes, so she bites the bullet and walks over to her father.
The detectives notice her first, give her the up-and-down. The Captain extends a hand in her general direction. Not for her to hold. He’s merely pointing her out.
“This is my daughter, Audrey.”
Mumbled sorry for your losses tumble out of their mouths, and then they resume their conversation.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Audrey says, and all three give her dead cold cop looks. “But I don’t even know what happened.”
The Captain dismisses her with a curt shake of his head. “Later.”
“No, Dad, how about now?”
One of the detectives runs interference. “Miss Walczak, I’m sorry, but we really need to speak to your father right now. You understand.”
Not a question, but a statement of fact. Of course you understand.
But she doesn’t.
None of this.
She pushes her way past the reporters and makes her way onto Eighth Street. Have a field day, fourth and fifth estates. Let me know what you find out.
An hour later Audrey is blowing her last twenty dollars on a Bloody at McGillin’s. She leaves a fat tip and uses the remainder to purchase sexually suggestive seventies jukebox tunes—much to the dismay of most patrons. The Sweet’s “Little Willy.” Slade’s “Cum on Feel the Noize.” The Addrisi Brothers’ “We’ve Got to Get It On Again.” The Raspberries’ “Go All the Way.” And yes, of course, Starland Vocal Band’s “Afternoon Delight.” Audrey is convinced she was born thirty years too late. She should have been a slutty little teen in the seventies, rocking out to this shit.
She’s no raving beauty, she knows that. But she can attract attention when she wants from a certain type of man. Especially with one hand on the juke, her hips rocking side to side, sucking down her drink. It’s not long before a bu
nch of middle-aged business guys in ties are surrounding her, totally amazed she knows these songs, offering up dollar bills (“you pick ’em, sweetie”) and, soon enough, drinks. Vodka drinks.
Skyrockets in flight…
She should never have come home.
Should have stayed in her fucked-up situation back in Texas, where at least she was ignored and belittled for a completely different set of reasons.
Where she didn’t have to deal with all this death.
As Mac Davis croons “Baby Don’t Get Hooked on Me” and Audrey’s coming out of the ladies’ room, one of the business guys is waiting for her. How clever of you. He puts on his serious moves, suggests they go to his Infiniti G35, which is parked in a garage just across the street. I’ll take you wherever you need to go. Audrey wants to ask, How about all the way to Houston? I travel light.
When she tries to push past him, he gets pushy in return. Grabs her hips, tries to shove his tongue down her throat. He misses by a wide margin and ends up licking her jaw. Which…ew.
She twists away. You know, if my brother were here, my cop brother, he’d kick your ass on the street outside. That is, if he weren’t dead.
Guy really insists now, embarrassed, probably. Trying to save face. He puts a hand around her throat, pushes her against the wall. Nobody’s around; restrooms are on the second floor, and it’s late.
She feels fingers dance around her lower belly, feeling for her waistline, looking for passage south.
Yeah, he’s going for the magic button that he thinks—in his drunken judgment—will make her change her mind.
She actually hoped this would happen.
Because she feels no guilt whatsoever when she punches his Adam’s apple hard and fast, then follows up with a shot to his liver, which drops him to his knees.
Revolver Page 19
