Restitution

by Lee Vance

  “And your own deal?”

  “Full immunity from extradition or seizure of assets, and round-the-clock protection. Security’s much easier to manage on an island.”

  “You know the French will give you up in a heartbeat if it gets too hot for them, no matter what they’ve promised you.”

  “I’ve documented their complicity,” he says casually. “They understand I won’t go down quietly and know that I’ve taken steps to protect myself in the event of an unexplained accident.”

  “Congratulations. You’ve planned for everything. Too bad Katya has to pay the price. She’ll stay out of jail, but the scandal will end her career.”

  William closes his eyes and sighs, deflating like a rooster unpuffing, his shoulders sagging.

  “I’ve done what I could for her.”

  “Done what you could?” I repeat scornfully. “You’ve ruined her.”

  William half-rises and slams one hand flat on the desk.

  “You think I want my father’s company bankrupted?” he says, spitting the words at me like stones. “My daughter tainted by scandal? Turndale will founder, and I’ll be vilified, but Katya will escape any formal censure. It’s the best result I could achieve.”

  “You’re running away and leaving her in the lurch.”

  “Wrong, Mr. Tyler,” he says, sinking back down into his seat and smoothing his sweater. “You’re running away. I’m running toward something.”

  I don’t respond, figuring I’ve already pushed him too far. I glance at my watch, wanting to go.

  “We’re almost done here,” William says, in control of himself again. “I’ll be leaving the country later today. I’ve written Katya a note, but certain things are better communicated face-to-face. Your role is to fill in the gaps.”

  “I don’t think she’s going to be very sympathetic,” I say contemptuously.

  “Katya’s like me. She’s smart and she’s ambitious. When she thinks it all through, she’ll appreciate why I took the steps I did. The only real mistake I’ve made was to hire Andrei. I fault myself for that. I should have known better.”

  “You should have known better why?”

  “Because he was queer,” William says, an expression of loathing on his face. “My son. I learned about his sexual preferences when he was away at school. That’s why I recruited only Katya out of college. It was a rule in the intelligence community never to employ homosexuals. They can’t be trusted. When he came to me for a job a few years back, though, I let sentiment sway my judgment. The moral here is never to compromise your principles.”

  The moral is that egoism justifies anything.

  “One final thing,” he says, staring at his hands. “I’ve reserved the right to name my successor as chairman of Turndale House. I’d be happy to name Katya in a few years time, if she’s interested.”

  “How sweet,” I say, thoroughly sick of him. “You’d like to buy back Katya’s love with the directorship of your internationally reviled museum.”

  “Sarcasm’s as tedious as flippancy,” William says, his voice assuming its previous hard tone. “Is there a point you’d like to make?”

  “Katya’s never going to forgive you.”

  “It’s a funny thing,” he says, looking directly at me. “I’ve never given a damn for people. Visit the Met some weekend—hundreds of ignorant tourists coughing and sneezing all over masterworks, each one imagining how many color TVs they could buy if they owned a single painting. I despise them. Blood’s thicker than water, though, a commonplace I began to understand only once Katya came into my life. It’s unexpectedly exhilarating to see yourself in another person. Magical almost. Katya’s free to disdain me, but I won’t give up on her.”

  My dad used to say that all the time, that blood was thicker than water. He also used to say that blood will out, that breeding tells. I stand up and feel faint, my vision narrowing tunnel-like, until I seem to be looking at the room from a distance. I shake my head, trying to regain my perspective.

  “There’s nothing of you in Katya,” I say.

  “It’s time for you to go,” he replies, touching something on the underside of his desk. The door opens and Earl beckons, my coat over his arm. “Good-bye, Mr. Tyler. I don’t expect we’ll be meeting again.”

  40

  I STAGGER LIKE A DRUNK on the short walk to Tigger’s car, too exhausted to concentrate on anything more than placing one foot in front of the other. The caffeine buzz has given way to a thudding headache, and I’ve got an odd metallic taste in my mouth. It’s all I can do to get the key in the ignition. Earl sees me off with an amused expression, his parting words a mocking admonishment to drive safely.

  As soon as I’ve driven a few blocks, I pull over to dial the Ocean View Inn on Tigger’s car phone, not trusting myself to attempt it while moving. The numbers on the keypad seem much too close together. Emily’s checked in, but she’s not answering the phone in her room. A mumbling front desk clerk refuses to look for her in the breakfast room, and makes me repeat my eight-word message three times. Christ.

  The clerk’s directions are to follow the Montauk Highway until it ends. My head’s nodding again, and I open all the windows, hoping the cold air will keep me alert. Black road stretches interminably in front of Tigger’s car—staying in the correct lane and maintaining a constant speed require complete concentration. I feel like I’m driving through a child’s primary-colored nightmare: white earth, blue sky, yellow sun, and an unseen enemy lurking.

  It’s just before ten when I finally pull into the Ocean View’s parking lot. The porch stairs leave me gasping, my feet seemingly far beneath me. I push the front door too hard and it slams against the wall. The clerk, three people at the desk, and a woman in a high-backed chair by the fire all turn to stare. The woman in the chair is Emily. I’ve never been so relieved to see anyone. She rises as I enter and takes my hand.

  “You look terrible,” she says. “You’ve got no color at all. What happened to you?”

  I try to shrug, wincing as my bad shoulder protests.

  “Come with me,” she says. “I want to take a look at you.”

  She helps me up a flight of stairs and into a low-ceilinged bedroom with plank floors and faded brown wallpaper. A desk, a wardrobe, a nightstand, and a four-poster bed are the only furniture. I sit on the edge of the bed and assist passively as she strips off my clothing, too done in to feel embarrassed. Unloading medical equipment from a pink-and-orange shoulder bag, she takes my blood pressure, listens to my heart, and palpates my abdomen.

  “You’ve got some nasty hematomas on your arm and shoulder,” she says. “Did you get hit in your torso?”

  “Kicked,” I say.

  “Have you vomited any blood? Or passed any blood in your urine or stool?”

  “Urine.”

  “Have you taken any painkillers?”

  “Aspirin, about an hour ago.”

  “How many?”

  “A bunch.”

  “That’s bad,” she says. “Aspirin’s an anticoagulant. You’ve got some internal bleeding, and you’re a little shocky. I’m going to call an ambulance.”

  “Don’t,” I say, grabbing her hand. “The police are looking for me.”

  “I’m a doctor,” she says. “My first job is to look after your physical health. Shock’s very tricky. You could even die.”

  “I’m just tired.”

  “Your fingernails are blue, your skin’s pale and clammy, your pulse is elevated, and your blood pressure’s low. Don’t tell me how to diagnose.”

  “Please,” I say. “The cops think I killed a guy named Franco. If they find me, I might never have the chance to clear myself. I need to speak to Andrei.”

  “You’re hallucinating,” she says, freeing her hand easily.

  “I’m not. Read the papers. I just need some time with Andrei. Please.”

  Her face reels in and out of focus, eyes narrowed and skeptical beneath a furrowed brow. Her hair smelled sweet when she ben
t forward to listen to my heart, like a newly mown field. Jenna had a poster of a Wyeth painting in her room at college, the one of a young woman half-lying on a grassy hill, looking up at a house on the rise above her. I used to imagine myself on that hill with her, the two of us surrounded by tall grass, a warm breeze carrying the scent of the earth.

  “Peter,” Emily says sharply.

  “What?” I ask, confused.

  “Get in bed. Now. Go to sleep. I’ll keep track of your vitals. If you take any turn for the worse, I’ll have to call an ambulance. I can’t take proper care of you here.”

  “I need to talk to Andrei first,” I protest, my voice sounding far away.

  Emily turns down the quilt on the bed and takes me firmly by the arm.

  “Sleep,” she says, guiding me into bed. “Andrei’s nearby, and he’s not going anywhere. You’ll see him later.”

  There are any number of questions I want to ask her—about Vladimir, about Davis’s accusations, about Lyman. She tucks the quilt around me and caresses my forehead gently. Her pillow smells like flowers. My eyes close of their own volition, and I spin down into the dark.

  41

  I HALF-WAKE to a banging on the door.

  “Come back later,” I shout, thinking I’m at the Harvard Club.

  “Open up, Peter,” a woman’s voice demands. “It’s Tilling.”

  I kick the covers away, panic-stricken, and move instinctively to the window. It’s almost full dark and there’s a Suffolk County Police SUV parked on the beach, red lights flashing. I’m fucked. Tilling knocks again.

  “Come on, Peter,” she says. “Don’t make us kick the door down.”

  I undo the dead bolt. Tilling and Ellis are in the hallway, a tall policeman hovering behind them. I’m surprised they don’t have their guns drawn.

  “How’d you find me?” I ask, my desperation audible.

  “The desk clerk said you lurched in this morning looking like a bum. He saw your picture in the afternoon paper. Running was stupid.” Her eyes flick over my body. “Nice boxers. Ugly bruises.”

  “You mind if I get dressed?”

  “You mind if we come in?”

  “If you want.” She’s only asking to mock me.

  “Wait here,” she says to the tall policeman as she and Ellis enter. Ellis shuts the door and leans against it, glaring. Tilling takes the desk chair. They’re both dressed as they were two nights ago, Ellis in her Patagonia outfit, Tilling in her army parka. The room’s crowded with three of us in it. I open the wardrobe opposite the desk to look for my clothes, self-conscious about being watched. My left arm’s still useless, and I have to sit on the bed to get my legs in my pants.

  “Who beat you up?” Tilling asks.

  “I’m not going to make any statement without my lawyer.”

  “There’s a note here,” Tilling says, lifting a sheet of paper from the desk. “Signed by someone named Emily.”

  “That’s none of your business,” I reply weakly, knowing they can go through my things at will now.

  “ ‘Back at six,’ ” she says, reading. “ ‘Vitals stable. Don’t exert yourself.’ ”

  She holds the note up so Ellis can see it. Ellis pulls a compact digital camera from her pocket and photographs it, the flash blinding.

  “Get a couple of his bruises also,” Tilling says.

  Ellis turns the camera to me and snaps some more photos. I’m not in a position to refuse.

  “So,” Tilling says, setting the note down. “Is Emily the one we’ve been looking for? The woman you were cheating on Jennifer with?”

  “She’s not involved,” I say angrily. “I only just met her. She’s a doctor, working in Moscow.”

  “Pretty quick work. You must have quite a way with the ladies.”

  “You enjoy taunting me?” I ask, standing to buckle my belt.

  “I’ll tell you what I’d enjoy, Peter,” Tilling says vehemently. “I’d enjoy your answering some questions. Just once, I’d like to think a conversation with you isn’t going to be a complete waste of time.”

  Her phrasing catches me up short. “What do you mean, ‘conversation’?” I ask. “You’re here to arrest me, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe,” she replies evenly, glancing at Ellis.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s a chance you might be able to buy yourself some slack here. But you have to talk to me. Right now.”

  It’s difficult to temper the sudden surge of hope I feel. I’ve got to be careful; I want to believe there’s a way out, and Tilling’s more than clever enough to take advantage of that vulnerability. I sit back down on the bed, slipping on my shirt, and try to look less fraught than I feel.

  “You can ask a few questions,” I say. “No promises, though.”

  She takes a tape recorder and a small notepad out of her pockets, turns the recorder on, and sets it on the bed between us.

  “Detectives Tilling and Ellis questioning Peter Tyler at the Ocean View Inn in Montauk, New York. December tenth, five twenty-three p.m. Mr. Tyler, you’ve previously been read your rights. Do you remember those rights?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you waive counsel at this time?”

  “For now.”

  “Do you know Anthony Rommy, formerly a detective with the Westchester County Police?”

  “Yes. What’s Rommy got to do with anything?” I ask, feeling wrong-footed.

  “Just answer my questions, please. When did you last see Mr. Rommy?”

  “I don’t know. A month ago maybe. In a car outside my house.”

  “You didn’t see him after that?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know anything about Mr. Rommy’s movements or activities during the last twenty-four hours?”

  “No. He called me three or four days ago and said he was in Brunswick, Ohio, where I grew up. That’s the last time I heard from him.”

  Tilling makes a note of Brunswick.

  “Have you paid or otherwise encouraged anyone to surveil Mr. Rommy’s movements or activities at any time in the last three months?”

  “No. I had a private investigator check the guy out before my wife’s funeral, but that was it.”

  “Do you know anyone interested in hurting Mr. Rommy?”

  “Yes. Just about everybody who ever met him, including me and you. Why are you asking about Rommy?”

  “Do you know anyone with a specific intention to harm Mr. Rommy?”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell me where you were yesterday between the hours of eleven a.m. and seven p.m.?”

  “Yes.”

  She waits expectantly and then sighs.

  “Will you tell me where you were yesterday between the hours of eleven a.m. and seven p.m.?”

  “No,” I say, hope dissipating. Nothing good is going to come from this line of questioning. “Not right now. But I was with people. Different people. I’ve got a solid alibi for pretty much the entire time.”

  “Are you familiar with a rest area between exits fifty-one and fifty-two on the Long Island Expressway, in the town of Huntington?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t spend much time on Long Island, but I’m sure I’ve driven past it.”

  “A trucker found Mr. Rommy in a cardboard box at that rest area last night, dead. Do you know anything about his death, or have any idea who might have killed him?”

  I open my mouth to express shock and then close it. Tilling’s been playing me. She’s going to arrest me for both Franco’s murder and Rommy’s.

  “Well?” Tilling says. “You want to make a statement?”

  “I do,” I say quietly. “And then I’m done talking. I had nothing to do with Rommy’s death. I had nothing to do with Franco’s death. And I didn’t kill my wife. That’s it. Now go ahead and arrest me.”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry,” Tilling says, turning off the tape recorder and pocketing it. “Officially, I’m done here. Unofficially, I thought you might lik
e to know that Rommy cleared you of Franco’s death.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, certain she’s still toying with me. “I thought you said he was dead when they found him.”

  “He was. But there was a videotape in the box with him. Whoever killed him interrogated him first. The whole thing’s on tape.”

  “Jesus,” I say. “Interrogated him how?”

  “Stripped him naked, tied his hands behind his back, and hung him up by his ankles. Beat him with a metal bat until they broke most of his bones and turned his insides to jelly.”

  Bile rises in my throat, rending me speechless for a moment. “Even Rommy didn’t deserve that,” I manage to say.

  “No one does,” Tilling says flatly. “It’s a tough tape to watch.”

  “What did Rommy say?”

  “That one of his old buddies in the department has been copying him on our case notes. He got hold of the phone number that Lyman gave Pongo. We’d put in a request to the cellular provider for the call logs, but Rommy slipped a clerk some cash to make sure he got them first. Rommy saw the calls from Lyman to Franco and figured Franco might know something, so he took a ride up to Westchester and beat the truth out of Franco with a gun butt. Apparently, Lyman had a security gig for some Swiss pharmaceutical company a few years back and Franco worked for him as a guard. According to Rommy, Franco said Lyman called him out of the blue and hired him to help rob your house. They were looking for a FedEx package. Your wife came home unexpectedly and walked in on them in the kitchen. Lyman chased her into the garage and hit her with a crowbar.”