by Andrew Gross
“Who?” he asked me, his voice suddenly completely alert and ready.
“I don’t know!” I tried to catch my breath. “I only know I was lucky I woke up and heard him outside or I would probably be dead.”
“I want you to tell me everything, Hilary. But right now where are you?”
I looked around. “At a gas station somewhere in Queens. I can’t believe what I just had to do. He had a gun and I couldn’t make a run for the door. I had to—”
“Hilary, listen, you can tell me all about it when we’re together. In the meantime, are you sure that you’re safe where you’re calling from now?”
“Yes. Yes. I’m in my car. I left him back at the yard.”
“You’re absolutely positive of that? There’s no way he could have followed you?”
“No. My lights are off. The station’s closed. There’s no one around. But there’s a boathook through my window where the guy tried to stop me. Glass everywhere!”
“Hilary, listen . . .” His voice was steady and comforting. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to give you an address. In Brooklyn. It’s my house. But I don’t want you to drive there yourself. I want you to leave your car on the street and find a cab. Are you in a position to do that?”
“Why?”
“You said this guy found you at the boatyard. You don’t think you were followed there?”
“No, no. I thought of that when I left you. I did my best to make sure I wasn’t.”
“I’m thinking there might be a tracking device attached to your car somewhere. So just leave it on the street and find a cab. Are you up to that? Or else you can sit where you are and I’ll come get you. But that’ll take some time.”
“No, I can do it,” I said, sucking in a breath. “A tracking device?”
“I don’t know. But I just want to make sure he doesn’t follow you anymore. Do you know Brooklyn? The address I’m going to give you is in Bensonhurst.”
“I’ll write it down.”
He told me the address: 3371-60 Crescent Avenue. I scrawled it on a grocery receipt I found on the dashboard. “You said that you’re in Queens?”
“Yes. Near the Rockaways. On Atlantic Avenue.”
“Good. That’s only about fifteen minutes away. Now, listen, do what I told you, quick. Get away from your car. And you have to make absolutely certain before leaving that this guy’s not around, waiting for you to make a move.”
“No, I’m positive. I made several turns. The streets are empty. He’s not here.”
“Okay, then go. But keep your phone on. You can talk to me. Wait in the driveway on the side of the house. I’m at my dad’s house in Staten Island. I’ll be there in about half an hour.”
“What about my car?”
“Don’t worry about your car. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Patrick.” I was trembling. “I was just so scared and I didn’t have anywhere else to turn.”
“It was right that you called me. But, listen . . . you said there’s a boathook sticking out of your car?”
“That’s right. The window’s shattered. He smashed it through and it missed my head by inches.”
He paused. “What do you say you give some serious thought to maybe taking it out before you put that car back on the street?”
He gave me a bolstering chuckle.
“Yes. Yes, I will. Of course!” I said. I actually laughed myself. “It was terrifying, Patrick! And you have no idea how close it came.”
“You can tell me about it soon. I’m on my way. And, Hilary, if you feel even the slightest nerves or danger, you holler in that phone, okay? I’ll be there.”
“Okay, I will. Thank you, Patrick. I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I’ll see you soon.”
We hung up. In the dark of the station I pulled out the hook and left it next to the garage. I looked around and parked the Acura along the darkened street. There were a few cars left out there. It seemed safe.
Then I spotted a cab coming down Atlantic Avenue. I ran out after it and flagged it down. It pulled over and I blurted out Patrick’s address. The cabbie pulled away and I looked behind me. I didn’t see anyone following us.
Only then did I start to breathe easier.
We headed west on Atlantic, toward Brooklyn, putting a lot of distance between me and whoever was after me. Shaken, I pressed my face against the window. I couldn’t believe what I’d just done. I couldn’t believe what had happened.
Then something wormed into my mind.
About the conversation I’d just had. I stared at my phone.
I’d just told Patrick that someone had tried to kill me and he said he would come get me if I was in danger. He worked for the NYPD.
Never once did he mention a thing about calling in the police.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I got to his place first. The house was a typical two-family home on a darkened, residential street in a part of Brooklyn I didn’t know at all. Patrick was right—it was about a fifteen-minute cab ride from where I’d been. On the way, I must have glanced behind about a hundred times, checking to see if anyone was following. The streets were quiet. I was pretty sure we were alone. But I had the cabbie make a few random turns and double back until I was absolutely positive.
He let me off and I waited in the driveway.
I knew I’d have to own up to what had happened back at the boatyard. I couldn’t have Artie or my dad call the police. That would blow everything up. I’d have to make up some kind of story. In the meantime, I knew I was lucky to even be alive. Lucky that that man wasn’t in the backseat of my Acura with a gun to my head as we drove back to Armonk to get the money.
Around one, I saw headlights come down the street and Patrick’s truck pull up at the house. He rolled down his window and motioned for me to follow him in.
He got out and held me by the shoulders. “You’re okay? No problems on the way?”
“No. No one was following us. Look, I can’t thank you enough for letting me—”
I know I looked as if I’d just stepped off the most harrowing roller coaster ever. My legs were wobbly and my face was probably just as gray as when I’d called him, even in no light. He just opened his arms and I kind of melted into them. I’m not sure I’ve ever needed a hug more. I stayed, my head buried in his chest, tears welling, not wanting to lift my face. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been in someone’s arms.
“You’re safe now,” he said, patting me. “Come on inside. I want you to go through everything that happened. I’ll put on a cup of tea.”
“That would be great.” I exhaled and my whole body seemed to ease.
We went in through the kitchen door. It was a modest place, but cute. Nicely done. The wooden cabinetry looked new. I guessed Patrick had done a lot of the work. “I thought you lived on Staten Island?”
“I grew up there. That was my family house where you saw me today. I, uh, actually am of age. I moved out a long time ago. I’ll make you some tea. Or I can pour you another tequila if that’s not strong enough.”
“No. Tea is perfect.” I laughed, relieved.
I sat down at the small kitchen table while he put on some water. There was a wooden door that led to a small yard and a cute eating alcove in an arched portico. He had a bunch of old copper and antique kitchen tools on the walls. It all looked tasteful and nice.
“Sleepytime,” he said. “It’ll calm your nerves.” He brought it over with a napkin and even sliced a lemon. I took a sip and everything started to feel better. “All right, let me hear it.” He sat down across from me. “From the time you left me today. Don’t leave anything out.”
I went through it. From calling Elena to make sure Brandon was okay, to driving out to my dad’s yard and figuring it was the safest place I could be. I even mentioned how they had bought the yard after he retired from teaching.
“What did he teach?” Patrick asked.<
br />
“Biology and chemistry. At Hunter College High School. My mom taught math.”
“My mom worked in a school too. She was a secretary in the guidance office. New Dorp High School on Staten Island.”
“I guess we’re kindred souls.”
The rest I tried to put together as best I could, although it all came back to me jumbled and rambling, as if I was recalling a dream.
A nightmare.
I told him how I’d run into the shed and knew I couldn’t make it to the car, and had to do something when the guy came in. How I’d started up the hoist and rammed him with the forklift when his attention went up to the boat on blocks. Patrick’s eyes widened. How the outside door wouldn’t open and how he came after me and crashed the hook through the car.
“Jeez, Angelina Jolie’s got nothing on you,” he said, giving me a crooked grin, but one that was lit with admiration. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
“I know. He killed Rollie, Patrick. He basically admitted it coming after me in the shed. He mentioned Brandon too. He said he was watching us the night of the break-in. He must’ve followed me out there; there’s no other way he would have known.”
“Unless he attached a GPS the night he broke in. We’ll find out. Both of which mean, however, he likely knows about me as well.”
“He does know about you, Patrick. He said something weird, that all this wasn’t just about the money. I forget how he put it—it’s all so jumbled in my head and I was so scared.”
“Don’t worry,” Patrick said, reassuring me. “Slow down.”
I took another sip of tea. “He said the money was only part of what they were looking for. That there was something else your father had. A page. From a diary or something . . .”
“Diary?”
“That’s why he brought your name up. He said, ‘Your boyfriend’s gonna be next, you know . . .’ That the money was only part of it. That ol’ Joe had something else with him. And I was gonna take him to it. Or else. What did he mean by that?”
“I’m not sure what my father managed to get himself wrapped up in,” Patrick said.
“Patrick, I’m sorry to have to say this . . .” I looked at him. “But it’s sure starting to sound a lot like some kind of blackmail to me.”
His nod was somber and filled with resignation. “I know.”
I put down my tea. “Patrick, look, this has all just gotten a little crazy for me. Rollie was murdered. He was killed to get to me. I’m sure of that now. And this guy also knows about Brandon. I’m prepared to turn myself in. Whatever happens, happens . . . But I can’t live with the risk. Not anymore.”
He nodded sympathetically. “Did you happen to get a look at the guy?”
“Not a good one. It was dark. Short hair. Maybe light complexion. Medium build. He was all bloodied when he came at my car. I wouldn’t want to have to pick him out of a lineup. I just don’t want to think that he’s still out there. That this could happen again. I know what I said earlier, about handling this between us. But not anymore. I can’t take the risk. Not with Brandon.”
Patrick nodded and stood up. He went over and leaned against the counter.
My heart grew fitful. “That’s the second time I’ve said that to you and you haven’t come back with what I expected.”
“What were you expecting?” He stood there looking at me.
“I’ve just had someone try to kill me, Patrick. I expected you to say that we’re going to hand this over to the police. The money. Everything. You’re part of the NYPD. I said I was prepared. That you would make the call.”
“We’re not going to take this to the police, Hilary,” he said back to me.
“What?” I squinted my eyes as if I hadn’t heard correctly. His answer hit me like a meteor falling out of the sky.
“We’re not going to go to the police,” he said again. He took in a breath. “I can’t.” He just kept looking at me as if the situation had now changed. And there wasn’t even the slightest blink in his eyes.
“Look, I’m sorry about your father,” I said. “I know it’s clear he was into something that you don’t want to come out. I get that. But people are dead. This guy knows who I am. You are a cop, aren’t you? Or at least you work with the fucking department. We don’t have a choice anymore. We have to turn it in.”
“It’s not about my father.” Patrick looked at me. “At least, not anymore.”
I put down my tea and stared back. “You’re starting to scare me a little. I’m not sure I understand.”
I guess I’d sensed it, when I was back at the gas station and he said he would come and get me. That I could go to him, but never once mentioning the police. Which was the logical response. Given that the guy had tried to kill me. My heart rate started to pick up. “What do you mean, this isn’t about your father?”
“You’re right.” He came back over and sat across from me. “I am a cop. Maybe not exactly a cop so much these days. A lieutenant, though I’m no longer in a uniform. But I do work for the NYPD. And the oaths I swore still apply . . .”
“I’m not sure where we’re going with this, Patrick . . . Someone tried to kill me tonight.”
“I understand. But the police can’t know about this. In spite of everything I just said. And when I said it wasn’t about what my father has done, it’s not. Or some loyal son’s attempt to protect him. It’s for my sister.”
“Sister?” I blinked with total surprise. “Patrick, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“She lives in Tottenville. That’s all the way down at the southern tip of Staten Island. You might have seen her at the funeral.”
I thought back to the pretty woman I’d seen walking down the aisle ahead of him and sitting in the first row. “She has two kids, right?”
Patrick nodded. “Chris and Alec. Good kids. Annette and her husband are separated these days. He used to work as a field inspector for New Jersey Power and Light, but got laid off. Part of the sequester cuts. Bills were mounting. Kids in a Catholic academy. They had a summer place in the Poconos. Two mortgages to pay. Like a lot of people, maybe living a bit over what they could afford. I think you know the scenario, right?”
I nodded. But I had no idea where this was heading.
“Then Sandy came. A lot of homes around them were hit hard. Just like we were. Two people in her neighborhood even died. They . . .” He paused and wet his lips, tapping his index finger gently on the chair arm. “. . . Maybe they did some things that weren’t a hundred percent right.” He hesitated again. “When it came to the insurance claims. Let’s just say they were desperate . . . I think you can understand what it’s like to feel desperate, Hilary, right?”
“Yes. But I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me . . .”
“Let’s just say they put in for claims on their house that weren’t exactly by the book. And then made them look that way. A flooded basement. Some things of value that might have ended up down there. Some roof damage that might not have been directly related to the storm. There were a thousand claims being filed all around them. They figured, who would know? But one of their contractors got suspicious and turned them in . . .”
“I’m sorry, Patrick. You’re right. I know how when you lose a job and you have a family to support it can make you do certain things . . .”
“Ryan’s not a bad guy.” He shrugged. “In fact, he’s as honest as they come.” He tapped his thumb against the table one more time. “The thing I’m saying is, he wasn’t the one who filed the claim.”
“Oh.” It suddenly sank in exactly why he was telling all this to me. Our eyes met.
His sister had.
“What happened?”
“I got them a lawyer and we were able to negotiate with the insurer to avoid it going any further. As long as she paid back whatever they’d given her. Which in light of all the Sandy victims who hadn’t gotten a thing at that point would be doubly bad. I didn’t want my father to know. Hell, he h
ad barely enough socked away to keep himself afloat. Plus he didn’t need to know at his stage—did it ever come out that he had advanced prostate cancer?—that his daughter might be spending his last months on earth awaiting trial on insurance fraud. We had our own claims coming in on the house in Midland Beach. So I just kind of . . . took it over.”
“Took what over?” I asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Her debt. To the insurance company. I just paid it.”
“How much are we talking about?” I still didn’t see how this connected to the half-million dollars I’d taken.
He let out a breath. “Give or take, seventy thousand or so.”
“Shit.” I felt my stomach fall off a ledge. “That really stinks. And that makes you an awfully nice brother, Patrick, but I’m still not seeing what any of this has to do with you not being able to go to the police.”
“I didn’t have seventy thousand dollars,” he said, continuing to hold his gaze on me.
He got up and went to the fridge and came back with a can of beer. He cracked it open and took a swig. Sat back down. “So I kind of borrowed it,” he said. “To me it was only a matter of time until the FEMA claims on this house came through and I’d be able to pay it back. In the meantime I did a lot of the work on our house myself that would make up the difference. The department gave me the time.”
“You borrowed it?” I asked, looking up at him. “From whom? A bank?”
Patrick chuckled. Then he smiled kind of grimly. “Unless you call it the National Bank of Kiev. Brooklyn branch.”
My eyes widened. “The Russian mob? You took a loan from the Russian mob to pay your sister’s debt.”
“Ukrainian,” Patrick said with a chortle, “or so they keep reminding me. This sort of loan, the interest keeps escalating daily.”
“How much is it up to?” I had no idea what the street rate for that kind of transaction was. Maybe as high as 20 percent a week.
