End of Story

by Peter Abrahams

  “Softness in his life?” Ivy said.

  “Exactly,” said Claudette. “He even wrote about it.”

  “Wrote about it?”

  “I can show you,” Claudette said. She went into another room, came back in less than a minute with a Valentine’s Day card from Hallmark, slightly yellowed with age. “This came with the flowers he sent her.” Claudette handed the card to Ivy.

  On the front, a silhouette of a man and a woman watching a sunset. Inside, the printed script—Love Is Ours—was crossed out; instead, in ink:

  Betty Ann,

  The longest fall and the softest landing.

  Forever, Vance

  The handwriting hadn’t changed at all, neat, a little on the small side, no hint of hesitation.

  “Hard to believe he’d ever give her up,” Ivy said.

  Claudette went a little pale. “What are you saying?”

  “Even if he knew where she was,” Ivy said. “He’ll never make a deal.”

  Claudette nodded. “You got that right.” All of a sudden her face got twisted and she started to cry, big sobs coming from deep inside.

  Ivy took a step toward her, touched her arm. “What is it?”

  Claudette threw herself on Ivy, almost knocking her down. Her tears fell on Ivy’s shoulder. She said something that got muffled in Ivy’s sweater.

  “I missed that,” she said.

  Claudette raised her face, now a complete mess. “I forgive her,” she said.

  “For the robbery?” Ivy said. An idea hit her. “Did you know they were planning it?”

  Claudette let go, took a step back. “I don’t know a thing.”

  “But you were close—did Betty Ann tell you?”

  Claudette’s voice rose, suddenly piercing. “The cops believed me. So who the fuck are you?” She lifted the hem of her T-shirt, exposing her flabby pale belly, and wiped her face.

  “I think I should go,” Ivy said.

  Claudette nodded, her face still hidden behind the T-shirt. “Just write that I forgive her,” she said, quieter now.

  “Meaning maybe Betty Ann might see the book somewhere and know?” Ivy said.

  “Maybe then she’ll forgive me, too.”

  “For what?” said Ivy.

  Claudette lowered the T-shirt. Her face was wet and blotchy, but she’d stopped crying. “I don’t think your book’s going to work,” she said.

  Seventeen

  Tipsy. That was the word Ivy’s late grandmother, back in Ohio, used to describe any degree of inebriation, including Grandpa’s blackouts. Ivy, climbing into the Saab at the bottom of Ransom Road, felt tipsy. She drove to the top of the hill, made a turn, another, a bunch more, found herself passing through what seemed like miles of rolling farmland—the rolling effect bringing up a burp or two that strongly reminded her of the piggy platter and promised worse—and suddenly there she was on Main Street in West Raquette, only from the opposite direction of what she’d expected. That gave her the idea to check the speedometer. What she saw there lifted her foot right off the pedal.

  Mileage back to the city? Lots. Time? Late. Condition of the driver? Could be better. Up ahead a sign missing some bulbs read: CAN-AM MOTEL—DAILY-WEEKLY-MONTHLY. What time did her shift start tomorrow? Four. Did the Can-Am look cheap? Very. How much cash did she have on her? Not much—the bill at the Tiki Boat had been a bit of a surprise. Did she have her credit card, to be used only in emergencies? Yes. Did this qualify?

  Ivy turned into the parking lot at the Can-Am Motel, hitting the turn signal a little late, like after she’d come to a stop. Then she noticed her shoulder felt damp. A moment or two later she remembered why, and the mania came to a stop, too.

  Ivy awoke at seven, feeling much better than she deserved. And her mind had been working overnight, had her agenda waiting. Three quick stops on the way home: stop one—the Gold Dust Casino, where she picked up a dub of the robbery tape; stop two—West Raquette High, where the coach lent her the original of the Thanksgiving tape; stop three—the police station.

  Ferdie Gagnon sat at his desk, checking boxes on a long form.

  “Hey,” he said. “I was hoping you’d swing by.”

  “Really?”

  “Got something for you.” He handed her a worn paperback novel with a coffee-stain ring on the cover: The Underground Man, by Ross Macdonald.

  “I’ll mail it back,” Ivy said, taking a seat.

  “Yours to keep,” Gagnon said.

  “Thanks,” Ivy said. She tried to decide where to begin.

  “Something on your mind?” said Gagnon.

  “First of all, I appreciate how helpful you’ve been and—”

  “I expect a signed copy,” Gagnon said.

  “Of?”

  “Your book,” Gagnon said. “The mystery novel based on the Gold Dust case.”

  “I’m a little slow today,” Ivy said.

  Gagnon checked another box on his form. “Those firebowls’ll do it,” he said.

  Ivy went still. “Were you there?”

  “Negative,” Gagnon said. “But I told you—we keep an eye on Claudette.”

  Ivy didn’t remember seeing anyone in uniform. “Was it another detective?”

  “No need to get specific.”

  Ivy thought it over. “Or the bartender?” she said. “Is he on some sort of retainer?”

  Gagnon smiled, exposing that cheap dental redo Harrow had caused. He nodded. “Your book’s going to be great.”

  The first time he’d mentioned this supposed book, Ivy had felt a little bad. Now she didn’t. “Do you also keep an eye on the football coach?”

  He shook his head. “Just Claudette—and maybe one or two more from other cases,” he said. “What did that old coot tell you?”

  “He showed me some tape.”

  “Game tape?”

  Ivy nodded. “I saw that Thanksgiving touchdown pass you threw to Harrow.”

  Gagnon’s face reddened a little. “You were checking up on me?”

  “Nothing like that,” Ivy said.

  “Then what?”

  Ivy leaned forward. “This may sound pretty strange,” she said.

  “Try me.”

  “Was there ever any thought in your mind—or anyone’s—that Harrow might have been innocent?”

  Gagnon tilted back in his chair. “Are you going to end up being trouble?” He glanced at The Underground Man, lying in her lap, maybe wanting it back.

  “Does that mean there were doubts?” Ivy said.

  “None,” said Gagnon. “On the part of nobody.”

  “But how come?” Ivy said. “Where’s the physical evidence?”

  “Physical evidence?” said Gagnon. “Didn’t you see Leon’s tape?”

  “And the football tape,” Ivy said. “That’s my whole point. He doesn’t have the same run.”

  “Lost me.”

  “The way Harrow runs on the football field is different from the way he—the way the man in the ski mask—runs in the casino.”

  The angle of Gagnon’s head changed, heavy chin coming forward, little eyes withdrawing. “Different,” he said.

  “Completely,” Ivy said. “The football runner is fluid and athletic. In the casino he’s duck-footed and clumsy.”

  “And how about running with a football versus running with a duffel bag crammed with cash,” Gagnon said. “Factor that in?”

  “I did,” Ivy said. “It’s not enough to explain the difference.”

  He opened a drawer, found a stick of gum, put it in his mouth. “In your scientific opinion.”

  Ivy took out the two tapes. “If you just look at them, you’ll—”

  “Not going to do that,” Gagnon said.

  “Why?”

  “Lots of reasons,” Gagnon said. “But how’s this for starters—Harrow pleaded guilty.”

  She was just finding this out now? All the patterns that had been forming in her mind started to dissolve. Ivy had no response.

  Gagnon chewed his
gum, jaw muscles bulging. “For your story, of course, you can play it any way you want. But then you have to come up with some reason why an innocent man would plead guilty.”

  “Maybe to protect someone else,” Ivy said.

  “Such as?”

  There was only one answer. “Betty Ann.” New patterns began taking shape.

  “Him not making a deal for a lesser charge was how he protected Betty Ann,” Gagnon said. “He didn’t have to plead guilty.”

  “Maybe it was his way of making a statement,” Ivy said.

  “Like what?”

  Ivy had no idea. But her mind kept struggling, almost feverish; the feeling reminded her of taking tough exams, with lots of questions left and time running out. “Or maybe,” she said, “he got bad legal advice.”

  “How about Carter and Lusk were faking death and now they’re down in Cancún living it up?” Gagnon said.

  Ivy felt her face going hot. “What are you saying?”

  “Just brainstorming along with you,” Gagnon said. “It must be fun to be a writer, scheming away. But in this business the truth is obvious, ninety-nine percent of the time.”

  His phone rang. He answered it. Did she have anything more? No. She waited for the call to end so she could say good-bye. Outside, rain was falling; it zigzagged down Gagnon’s grimy window.

  He hung up, looked at her, a new expression on his face, a little less self-assured, even puzzled. “That was the guy from witness protection,” he said. “They had Mandrell set up down in Phoenix until about three years ago.”

  “And then?”

  “He disappeared.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Vanished,” Gagnon said. “How they found out was the checks the feds were sending stopped getting cashed.”

  “Are they looking for him?” Ivy said.

  “Did for a while. But it’s not high priority.”

  “Why not?”

  “Old news,” said Gagnon. “Limited resources. And how are you supposed to protect a guy who won’t protect himself?”

  “Is he in danger?”

  “Theoretically,” Gagnon said. “Betty Ann’s still out there.” He thought for a few seconds. “But this probably means he’s even smarter than we thought.”

  “How so?” Ivy was tired of hearing that. Harrow was the smart one: all you had to do was read his writing.

  “Mandrell must’ve given himself a new identity, right?” Gagnon said. “Before only the feds knew who he really was. Now it’s just him.”

  “So what does this mean?” Ivy said.

  “Dunno,” said Gagnon. “Maybe it could be—what’s that little chapter sometimes at the end?”

  “Epilogue?”

  “Yeah,” said Gagnon. “An epilogue to your book. But the Gold Dust case—the real case, if you get my meaning—is history.”

  A uniformed cop knocked on his open door. “All set at the courthouse,” she said.

  “On my way,” Gagnon said.

  Ivy rose, put the tapes in her bag.

  “You could follow me,” he said.

  “To the courthouse?”

  “Now that you mentioned Harrow’s lawyer,” Gagnon said, strapping on his shoulder holster. “He should be there, say you wanted to run some of your theories by him.”

  Ivy glanced at her watch. She had half an hour, tops, if she was going to make it back to the city on time. “I do,” she said.

  In the courthouse parking lot, a man with an umbrella in one hand and a loose and untidy sheaf of papers in the other was talking to two teenage boys in hooded sweatshirts who were getting drenched.

  “Hey, Mickey,” Gagnon called to him. “Got a sec?”

  The man motioned for the boys to stay put and came over.

  “Mickey Dunn,” Gagnon said, “this here’s Ivy. She’s writing a mystery story based on the Gold Dust case.”

  “Yeah?” said Dunn. “Like for TV or something?”

  “More in the nature of a book,” Gagnon said. “She’s got some questions about Vance Harrow.”

  “Yeah?” said Dunn.

  “Maybe we could get in out of the rain,” Ivy said.

  Dunn’s mouth opened a quarter of an inch or so; he looked a little confused.

  “It’ll just take a few minutes,” Ivy said.

  “Leave you to it,” said Gagnon, and he headed up the courthouse stairs.

  “Well,” Dunn said, “I guess…” He turned to the teenagers. “You boys go on in and wait for me,” he called.

  “But, Mr. Dunn,” one of them said. “What about that other thing, you know, at the golf…”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Dunn said.

  “The trespassing,” the other boy called over in what was meant to be a stage whisper.

  “Just go on in, for Christ sake.” Dunn waved them toward the courthouse. The rain came lashing down. A paper or two got torn from his grip and blew away; he didn’t seem to notice. “How ’bout we sit in my car?” he said.

  They sat in Dunn’s car, an old sedan with an overflowing ashtray, legal-paper-size documents wadded under both visors, and smells of stale coffee and wet dog. Dunn’s hair, going from red to gray, hung over his collar, a frayed collar and not too clean. He fumbled for a paper bag wedged between the seats.

  “Cruller?” he said.

  “No, thanks,” said Ivy.

  He took a sugar-dusted pastry from the bag and bit into it. “Vance Harrow, huh?” he said. “A blast from the past.”

  “You were his lawyer?”

  “Uh-huh. Back when I was a PD. Now I’m out on my own.” He fished out a card and handed it to her.

  “What was your strategy?” Ivy said.

  “Strategy?”

  “For Harrow’s defense.”

  Dunn took another bite. “I told him to be polite in court and wear a jacket and tie. Copping to it like he did, wasn’t much else to do.”

  “Did you ever ask why he wanted to plead guilty?”

  “Must’ve been because he knew they had him cold,” Dunn said.

  “But did you ever discuss it with him?” Ivy was aware of a sharpening in her tone; Dunn, slowly chewing, grains of sugar sticking to his chin, didn’t seem to notice.

  “Not that I recall,” Dunn said. “Lot of water under the bridge since then.”

  “Not to mention spilled milk,” Ivy said.

  He nodded as though that made sense. “That, too.”

  Ivy watched his face in profile: untroubled, unstressed, unhurried. “Do you think Harrow was basically a good person?” she said.

  “Oh, sure,” said Dunn, gesturing at the courthouse with the remains of the cruller. The two boys hadn’t gone inside, but waited under an overhang on the stairs, huddled in their sweatshirts, shuffling their feet. “Most of ’em are.”

  “Then how did he get mixed up in the robbery?”

  “Simple greed,” Dunn said. “That’s the usual.”

  “Did you actually discuss motive with him?”

  “With Vance Harrow?”

  “Think,” Ivy said, the edge in her tone now unmissable.

  His eyes shifted quickly to her. “This book’s important, huh?” he said. He thought; or at least sat still, for a few moments not even chewing. “Nope,” he said. “No memory of a discussion like that.”

  “What about the casino surveillance tape?” Ivy said. “Do you have a memory of that?”

  “Do I ever,” said Dunn. “The tribe had just put that system in—I couldn’t believe how sharp the picture was.”

  Ivy wanted to smack him. She took a deep breath instead. “And since it was so sharp, how would you describe the running style of the man in the mask?”

  “The man in the mask?” said Dunn. “Meaning Harrow?”

  “His running style.”

  Dunn pursed his lips. Rain drummed on the roof. “Urgent,” he said.

  “He had an urgent running style?”

  “Wouldn’t you, trying to get away with four
hundred grand or whatever it was?”

  “Two hundred ninety-seven thousand five hundred and twenty,” Ivy said.

  His eyebrows rose. “Thought it was more than that,” he said.

  “So did most casual observers,” said Ivy. “Were you aware that Harrow was an excellent high-school athlete?”

  “You don’t say,” said Dunn. “Silver lining—they got workout rooms in most of the state pens. Where’d he end up, again? Sing Sing?”

  Ivy had to get out. “I won’t take any more of your time.” The door stuck. She banged it open, hard.

  “That’s it?” Dunn said, glancing at the dashboard clock. “I’ve still got a few minutes.”

  “Use them to find out about the goddamn trespassing case,” Ivy said. The boys on the stairs were watching, the anxiety on their faces visible from across the parking lot.

  Eighteen

  “Summarizing, then,” said Herman Landau, motioning for his assistant to switch off the VCRs, “it’s your contention that the man—or should I say person—in the ski mask is someone other than Vance Harrow.”

  “And therefore an innocent man is in jail,” said Ivy.

  She sat on a soft leather couch in Landau’s office, the biggest office she’d ever seen, high above Battery Park, the Statue of Liberty half-lost in morning haze. The assistant ejected the tapes, laid them on Landau’s desk and sat on the other end of the couch, pen in hand, legal pad in her lap.

  “What would you have me do, Ms. Seidel?” Landau said.

  “Get him out,” Ivy said.

  The assistant’s pen scratched across her page.

  “On the basis of these tapes,” Landau said.

  “Plus his lawyer was terrible,” said Ivy.

  “Drunk in court?” said Landau. “Taking payments from the district attorney? Habitually sleeping at the defense table?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Ivy said.

  “Then he was acting within permissible norms,” said Landau. Behind him hung framed photos: Landau shaking hands with Ariel Sharon, Rudy Giuliani, Barbra Streisand.