Everything to Lose: A Novel

by Andrew Gross

  I finally reassured myself, No, Hil, that scenario was totally unlikely. Kelty, by all accounts, was no bank robber or kidnapper who’d be carrying around marked bills. Keep it together, I told myself, smiling at Desi, acting as if this was the most mundane thing in the world, while all the time my heart was doing somersaults.

  “Eight thousand, six hundred and fifty dollars, Mrs. Cantor,” she wrote on a deposit slip after counting it three times. “In your money market account, you said, correct . . . ?”

  “Yes, the money market,” I confirmed.

  The second time it went easier. I waited a few days, and when no one had come to arrest me, I went to the Webster Bank in Rye where I’d opened up a checking account two days earlier and put in $9,000. As long as I stayed under $10,000, I was pretty sure I was okay.

  Then I opened accounts at two more banks, in Harrison and Greenwich.

  At the same time I went on a job interview, for the chief comptroller of a Westchester-based TV station. The personnel manager seemed interested. I thought it went pretty well. My work at the ad agency was perfect for it. I knew my way out of all this was to start bringing in money, then downsize. I kept seeing numbers that showed the local housing market improving. If that continued, maybe I could sell the house for something above the mortgage, then rent a smaller place. Maybe apply for financial aid for Brandon next year.

  A day later I took thirty-five hundred dollars to a CVS in White Plains and walked out with a loaded prepaid card with Magic Johnson’s face on it. I repeated that at a drugstore in Rye and a food market in Chappaqua.

  As I stood in the parking lot, placing the loaded card back in my wallet, I told myself, Congratulations, Hil. I looked at a mother and her daughter around the same age as my son going in. I wasn’t just a thief. Someone who had walked off with a bag full of money that wasn’t hers. I’d moved on to federal charges.

  I was a money launderer now.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  So, Rollie . . . ,” Charles Mirho said, looking up at him. “You don’t really mind if I call you Rollie, do you?”

  Rollie McMahon couldn’t answer. His eyes bulged from up on the beam he was suspended from in the family room of his colonial in Briarcliff Manor. His mouth was taped, his hands were bound behind him, and a noose was looped around his neck. The rickety wooden side table, which was all that held him from cracking his neck, wobbled gingerly.

  Rollie nodded with a grunt, but to Mirho it wasn’t altogether clear whether that was a yes or just a reaction to the predicament he was in, which indeed was dire. He’d probably shit over himself next.

  Rollie muffled a garbled, indecipherable response.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Mirho said. “Good. That way we can really talk and come to some kind of understanding about whether I’m going to kick over this piece of shit table here . . .” Mirho jiggled his foot on the side table. “Or if we’re gonna actually get you out of this little pickle. Understand what I’m saying . . . ? Now Rule Number One of finding yourself in this particular situation is, whatever you do, don’t be jumpy now. Got it?”

  This time Rollie, bug-eyed, nodded demonstratively.

  “Good. Now that’s the kind of response I like.”

  It hadn’t taken much to disable Rollie after Mirho watched his wife leave, probably to her book club or maybe a movie with a friend. A squirt of pepper spray and then a noseful of chloroform easily did the trick. The real work was hoisting the fat tub up over that beam. And praying it held. The visual of Rollie’s red-cheeked, chubby face when he came to and found himself dangling from there was worth the price of admission in itself. Mirho stepped up and ripped the strip of adhesive from the tubbo’s mouth.

  “What do you want from me?” Rollie said, gasping for needed air. “Take anything we have. It’s all yours. Why are you doing this to me?”

  “We’ll get to that soon, Rollie. I promise we will. In the meantime I just want to establish some ground rules. I’m going to ask you something once.” Mirho held up his index finger. “Okay, twice maybe, but I promise, a third time and it won’t be fun. And if I don’t hear the answer that I’m looking for, I’m afraid your poor wife’s gonna come home from her book group or wherever it is she’s at and find a pretty messy pile of shit in the ol’ family room, if you know what I’m saying.” He jiggled the table again, sending Rollie’s heart through his throat. “Scare her right out of that Fair Isle, right . . . ?”

  “Please, please,” Rollie begged, tears starting to come down his cheeks. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know what you want from me. You see I have a family . . .”

  “And a nice-looking one it is, Rollie. Two big, strapping boys, and look at that gal. Would be a shame to leave them like this, wouldn’t it now?” Rollie started to sweat. Large beads tracking down his ruddy cheeks. “Wouldn’t it?” he said, firmer. “I didn’t quite hear an answer . . .”

  “Yes! Yes!” Rollie shouted. He twisted and turned, as if that might possibly free him, until his feet slipped on the tabletop, nearly making it worse.

  “That won’t help, guy. I promise. I’ve seen it many times before. But glad to hear we’re on the same page at least. So look here . . .” Mirho picked up a photo from the credenza behind the couch. “Always the Good Samaritan, I see. Head of the Rotary Club. Pharmacist of the Year, 2007. What are you, Rollie . . . Some kind of doctor?”

  “I’m a pharmacist,” Rollie answered. “Please . . .”

  “Dispense drugs, huh? Well, what do you know . . . Then there’s the time you ran to the aid of that guy in the car ten days ago. Up on the road that night between Bedford and Greenwich . . .”

  Rollie didn’t answer. He only looked at Mirho confused, the color draining out of his face.

  “You remember that night, don’t you, guy? The police report said you were first on the scene. That you even saw that deer dart across the road. You said you saw the car roll down the embankment, right?”

  Rollie nodded fitfully. “Yes.”

  “And what did you do? You didn’t just drive on by. You stopped to help, right? What was the poor guy’s name . . . ? The victim. Oh yeah, Kelty. Joseph Kelty, right? You even ran down to help him. Not that by that point there was much you could do. I mean, the guy’s face practically went through the steering wheel, right? It was a bloody mess. Quite an effort for a big ol’ guy like you. I went out to look at the spot myself.”

  “What about it?” Rollie asked, trying to put together what this had to do with anything. His feet buckled and the table wobbled for a second, Rollie emitting a terrified squeal.

  “Careful! You sever that neck cord of yours, you should know it could take about five to ten minutes for you to die. Not sure we’ve quite got the height to do this humanely. You basically suffocate. But before you do, your brain swells up and you turn all blue. Probably mess up all over the floor . . .”

  “Please, please,” Rollie begged. “What do you want to know? I’ll tell you anything. Just let me down.”

  “Not sure I can do that, Rollie, just now . . . So remember—one, two chances. That’s our agreement, right? Otherwise it’ll be shitsville, okay? So let’s get back to that wreck. You’re down there doing your thing. You call 911. The police arrive, maybe what, according to the report, four, five minutes later?”

  “I don’t know. That sounds about right, I guess. Who cares?”

  “I care, Rollie. I care. And that’s all that should be mattering to you about now. Okay? But somehow there’s something missing from the car. I know it was in there because I saw Kelty place it in there myself, not twenty minutes before. And you were the first one there, the only one according to the report. So it stands to reason it was either you . . . or that cop. Polluto, right? He was the next one there. But I’m betting on you, Rollie. Because you’re such a Good Samaritan and all . . .” He tossed Rollie’s Pharmacist of the Year award on the couch. “We can just put it down to a moment of weakness . . .”

  “I don’t know what you’
re talking about.” Rollie shook his head. “What was missing?”

  “Now that’s one . . .” Mirho frowned, shaking his head. “Didn’t like that answer at all . . . Don’t want to get two more. Did I hear you say you needed a hint? Okay, here it is. We’re talking about this black leather bag that was in the car. It was right on the passenger seat. I watched Kelty put it in there myself. Funny how it never showed up in anyone’s account of the accident. Not in your eyewitness statement. Not in the police report.

  “Now the bag was nice—cow-grain leather, zippered top, flap pockets on one side . . . I’d even let you keep it if you liked it. But it was what was inside that I’m really interested in. But, hell, I bet you already figured that out for yourself. So you didn’t have just a little extra curiosity while you were down there? While you were checking to see if poor ol’ Joe was dead or alive? Maybe just a little peek?”

  “No, no! I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rollie pleaded. “Please.”

  “Now that makes two!” Mirho exhaled a sigh of disappointment. “Two chances gone.” He put his foot back on the side table. “I told you, all you get is three. I’m suddenly not exactly liking your odds now at all. I’m not . . .” He bumped into the table as he walked around him, eliciting a gasp. “One chance left. I may have to go at this a completely different way.”

  “No—no, please!” Heavy tears ran down Rollie’s cheeks and he thrashed his head back and forth in desperation.

  “You were the only one down there. So it had to be you or that cop. And the EMTs arrived just a few seconds after him. Which makes me think it had to be you.” He wobbled the table. “Last chance!”

  “No, no, please. Please! Wait!” Rollie seemed to be thinking. “There was someone else down there. I wasn’t alone! She was actually there first.”

  “She? Someone else? Now that’s a new one, Rollie. And a bad time to spring it on me. I didn’t see anything in the police report.”

  “I don’t know, maybe I never said it—but there was. A woman. She saw the whole thing happen too. She was down there ahead of me.”

  “A woman? You saw the accident, Rollie. You called the cops. This other woman thing, coming out of the blue like this . . .” Mirho scratched his head. “I don’t know, it all sounds kind of fishy to me . . .”

  “No, please, I swear! She didn’t have her phone with her. That’s why I made the call. I remember, she went into the car. She said she checked out the guy. The driver’s door was wedged. By the time I got down there she was already out. It was clear he was dead. I don’t know what you’re looking for—this bag, whatever—but it must have been her. She has to have it.”

  Mirho balanced his foot on the edge of the table, rocking it slightly, Rollie’s legs buckling precariously. “Please! Please! I’m not lying. I swear. Let me think. Her name was Janie or something. No—not Janie. Jeanine. That’s it. I swear!”

  “Jea-neen,” Mirho snorted skeptically. “Jeanine who, Rollie? Start filling me in, guy. Quick now!”

  “I don’t know! I don’t remember her last name. I’m not sure she told me. She was supposed to leave her info on my car, but she never did. She said she was in a hurry. To pick up her son from school or something. Football practice, I think.”

  “Football practice . . . ? Football practice ends in November or December. Rollie?”

  “Then basketball! That’s what she said. She just said that she had to go. She was in a hurry. So I just waited for the cops myself.”

  “So exactly what did this Jeanine look like, Rollie?”

  “I don’t know . . . Pretty. Brown hair. It was pulled up. She was in jeans and maybe a short leather jacket or something. You know, quilted.”

  “Quilted, huh? And you just let her go?” Mirho shrugged, shaking his head. “Just like that?”

  “Why not? There was nothing we could do for the guy. He was already gone. I couldn’t have taken anything if I wanted to. Even if I did see something. Which I didn’t. The cops arrived as soon as she left. I swear.”

  “Once again, playing Mr. Good Samaritan right to the end, huh?” Mirho shook his head. “Except it’s just not a very convincing story line. And that does make three now, doesn’t it? I have to go back to the rules.” Mirho kicked the table. Rollie pushed on his toes, trying to plant them more firmly. “What to do with you, Rollie. It just all sounds . . .”

  “She had to have taken it! She couldn’t wait to get out of there. Maybe she hid it somewhere.” Rollie’s face grew flushed with panic and sweat. “Wait! There was something. I do remember something.”

  “I’m listening. Now would be a good time to say it, pal.”

  “Her car. It was an Acura, I think. An Acura SUV. Silver.”

  “An Acura SUV? You’re sure?”

  “Yes! I’m sure.”

  “Silver, huh? And what about the plates?”

  “They were New York. I can see them now. I can’t recall the numbers. But it was definitely a silver Acura SUV with New York plates. She couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

  Mirho just kept staring. He’d gotten about all he could now.

  “It had some kind of school decal on the back. I couldn’t read it, ’cause I never got that close. But I think it began with an M. I don’t know, Morgan or Monmoth . . .”

  “An M, huh?” Mirho said. He was pretty sure that no one would become such a slobbering mess, hold out for so long, basically shit his pants if there was something he was hiding that could save his life. At least, not an everyday joe like Rollie here.

  Jeanine. A silver Acura SUV with New York plates. Who lived in Westchester.

  “You’re gonna let me down now, aren’t you?” Rollie said, a hopeful, tear-mashed mess. “I mean, that helps, right? It’s something to go on. I told you all I know, I swear. You said that was our deal.”

  “Yeah, that was our deal, Rollie.” Mirho agreed. He placed his foot on the stool one more time, and jiggled it, even more precariously than before. Mucus was running down Rollie’s chin. His face was red and hopeful.

  “That was indeed our deal.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The further I got away from having deposited the money, the more relaxed with it I was starting to feel.

  Brandon was paid up in school through the next semester. Our house was current. I even got a call from the TV station I’d interviewed with that they wanted me back for a second interview. Okay, the job paid forty thousand less than what I was previously making, but if I could get the house out from under me, and maybe rent something smaller, closer to Brandon’s school, the savings on taxes and expenses alone would make up much of the difference.

  I was beginning to feel that there was an outcome for us here other than total disaster. I still checked online every day for anything that might’ve come up on the missing money or on Kelty. If he’d been implicated in anything that might shed some light on it.

  But so far it appeared he hadn’t been.

  I did find one mention in the Staten Island Advance about a fund that was being set up in his name. By his son to help people in Midland Beach, the proceeds coming from a softball game in the spring between policemen and firemen on Staten Island. And there was also a memorial fund started by his fellow MTA workers.

  I gradually began to convince myself that I might just get away with it. No one seemed to be looking for it. No one even seemed to know. It was actually as if this lifesaving cache had simply fallen into my lap. That Joe Kelty was my guardian angel. I knew there were people connected to him who needed this money even more than I did. And I swore to myself, as soon as I was back on my feet, with a new job and a trimmed-down overhead, as soon I could create some distance from what I’d done, I’d find a way to get a good part of it back to them. Anonymously, of course. Maybe through that fund his son was setting up.

  And it made the wrong feel better that ultimately I would put the money to good use. Help people rebuild. Become a kind of guardian angel myself.

  Ye
s, the further it all faded into the past that feeling put some peace in me.

  It just didn’t last for even another day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Guess what Mommy has tomorrow?” I said to Brandon. We were at the kitchen island; he was working on his homework; I was on my iPad, doing my daily check for any articles connected to the accident.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Did you hear what I said?” I glanced away from the iPad. “I asked if you knew what I’ve got happening tomorrow?”

  I could see he was off in one of his little worlds.

  “I’ve got a job interview,” I said, trying to steer him back to the conversation and away from his mood. “Not just an interview, a second one. I think maybe they like me.”

  “Who?” he said distractedly.

  “This local TV station. It’s in White Plains. So it’s close by.”

  He looked up from his notebook. “This is stupid, Mommy. Why do I have to do this?”

  “Because you have to, Brandon. Just stick with it. You’re almost done.”

  “So you’re going to work in TV now? No more advertising?”

  “I told you, the advertising job is over, honey. And that’s if they hire me. I’m sure there are lots of other people they’re talking to who are just as qualified. But you never know.”

  “They’ll hire you,” Brandon said, his face down at the level of the notebook, sketching out one of his wild-looking monsters.

  “Well, that’s good to know. I wonder if I can get you on the hiring committee? I could use someone on the inside.”