by K. C. Maher
The Best of
Crimes
K.C. MAHER
Published by RedDoor
www.reddoorpublishing.com
© 2019 K.C. Maher
The right of K.C. Maher to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover design: Clare Connie Shepherd
www.clareconnieshepherd.com
Typesetting: Tutis Innovative E-Solutions Pte. Ltd
In memory of my father
1. FAST FORWARD
One
May–August 2015
On the plane home, I tried to tell Amanda what I had already said as well as what we had agreed not to say. But before I could speak a syllable, she draped an arm around my neck and reached over with her other hand to press her index finger against my lips. Later, driving north on I-95, I said, ‘You’re worth—’ and she slapped my leg while putting a finger to her own lips. We had agreed not to talk. She had told me it had been perfect. Making any comment now would only detract from that. Also, she refused to entertain in any way the concept of ‘Goodbye.’ Because it wouldn’t change anything.
Too soon, we were there. I stopped the car in front of the village library. Amanda opened the passenger door and I rested my hand momentarily on her shoulder. She scarcely nodded, straightened her spine, and slid out of the car, gently closing the door behind her. And without a word, without glancing back, Amanda skipped away and up the library’s concrete steps. The huge, heavy wooden door opened to a narrow strip of darkness, into which she disappeared.
Resolute, I drove a few feet farther, coming even with the police station’s Main Street entrance. Turning right onto Ferris Court, I parked on a street dappled by leafy shadows and checked that my backpack held the used boarding passes and hotel receipts. Quickly, I stepped onto the sidewalk and opened the police station’s side door.
Chief Carl Peterson was standing, arms crossed over his chest, just outside his small office. ‘Go home, Walter. Your wife, the middle-school social worker, the principal, and I all agree. We’re in complete agreement.’
‘I’ve committed a serious crime.’
‘As far as I and everyone who lives in this village are concerned, you have not.’
‘In New York, second-degree kidnapping is a class B felony. I knew that when I abducted thirteen-year-old Amanda Jonette for thirty-one hours.’
‘I have no doubt,’ Carl said, ‘that she was delighted to be wherever you went.’
‘May I sit down?’
‘Go home, Walter.’
‘Not before I write a full confession.’
‘You know, part of my job is preventing suicide.’
I shook my head. It was important to own up to my guilt. We argued our opposing points of view until Carl, losing patience, stormed out and went home.
Alone in the station, I sat at his desk and carefully recorded my crime in a notebook, which I had bought at the Orlando airport. The chief’s stapler was in his top drawer and I used it to attach receipts and tickets to the notebook’s cover. While I was contemplating my semi-legible handwriting, Detective Jim Buckley appeared.
He knocked on the doorframe. ‘Hey, Walter. Where’s the chief?’
‘Not here.’ I stood up and handed him the notebook. Buckley refused it. He didn’t even open it, but perhaps had noticed the stapled receipts. If he refused to respond, I told him he must put me in a squad car and drive me to the county facility. Buckley protested, but seeing that I was determined, did it anyway.
At the jail in Valhalla, the sheriff and guards treated me like any thirty-four-year-old man who had kidnapped a thirteen-year-old girl. Wearing an orange jumpsuit, I spent the night handcuffed to a metal pole.
The next morning, my wife, Sterling, arrived screaming at me and at the authorities, who mostly ignored her. When she stopped yelling and wept, I asked her to ring my former boss at Bank of America, because I was supposed to meet him for lunch tomorrow.
Hearing this, she began keening.
‘Sterling, please. You’ve helped a lot but I’m counting on you to see me through this.’
Furious as she was, she would manage far better than I ever expected.
Following a cursory investigation by the FBI, the magistrate broke standard procedure and allowed character testimonies. These took nearly three months, but saved me from going on trial. And not being tried by a jury, my attorney said, was critical. ‘Because the more you tell them there was no sexual misconduct despite appearances, the worse it can get. Like if you say, “Don’t even think about it,” the more they’re gonna think about it. Basic human nature.’
Lucky me, getting away with thought crimes. Nevertheless, a class B felony in New York means five years mandatory. So last week, I began my incarceration at the Federal Correctional Institution in Otisville.
2. TIME LIKE WATER
TWO
1999
Walking to Lehman Brothers that first day, I felt as if I finally belonged to the whole of spiraling existence. Along the Hudson River, I strolled the esplanade beneath an early summer morning sky so blue that the clouds appeared to swirl upward. And everywhere I looked, life beat in time with my heart. Plants reached for the sun. Giant allium flowers, heads like pink globes, waved on tall stalks.
Two girls jumped inside double-Dutch ropes turned by two other girls. The quick and nimble pair inside the ropes called out back-and-forth rhymes, spinning one direction and then the other. They clapped hands, in time.
At the South Cove Park, a tall young Asian man rollerbladed in precise opposing arcs around miniature orange cones set in a line. Thin and graceful, he moved fluidly, his ponytail swinging past his waist.
I was eighteen years old, a privileged math prodigy with two graduate degrees. Having leapfrogged my adolescence, I imagined life ahead as an undulating Fibonacci sequence, in ever expanding perfect proportion. My stride, in new black oxfords, matched the subliminal, subterranean rhythm.
I wore a business suit tailored by a Parisian man on Greenwich Street, a white dress shirt, and a green and blue silk tie of interlocking ellipses. Lena, one of my mentors and lovers at Harvard, had given me the tie. Martha, who didn’t know about Lena, had given me the silver cuff links shaped like infinity symbols.
Near the marina, the shifting tide seemed to reflect the newness of the day. My life felt almost equal in promise to the enormous Twin Towers that loomed over everything.
Inside the World Financial Center’s mahogany vestibules, brass elevators transported people to and from the global institutions upstairs. On the eighteenth floor, I reached the Lehman sanctuary, another towering circular space.
A sharp-featured woman in a pastel-green suit and muted pink lipstick stood from behind a curved desk. Her knuckles pressed into the top as she squinted at me.
‘Don’t tell me,’ she said. ‘You’re the wunderkind. Sit there. I’ll let him know hope has arrived.’
She sat in her swivel seat and crossed her legs inside tailored pants, a pose that revealed matching pastel-green four-inch-high platform pumps. She pushed a button and spoke in a noticeably so
fter, sweeter voice. ‘Mr. Ferraro? Your boy wonder is here.’
An opening appeared in the seemingly seamless curved wooden wall several feet behind her. Vince Ferraro emerged, shook my hand, and said, ‘No doubt Sterling gave you trouble.’
‘Hardly,’ she sniffed.
‘My pleasure, Sterling.’ I winked at her. She turned her head in a way that hinted at a repressed smile.
Inside his office, Vince declared the mortgage-backed portfolio I had developed for my thesis was outperforming most of the others at Lehman.
‘Good for it.’
‘Better than good, Walter. Because now that you’re on board, the day will come when I’ll need to use the tortoise and hare analogy.’
He referred to an approach that was hard-wired in me, of limiting risk first and seeking profit second—reversing the Lehman Brothers paradigm. I opened my brand-new briefcase and handed him the spreadsheets I had created since our last meeting.
Vince’s expression grew sly as he perused the structure I had built using actual Lehman holdings. He seemed pleased and I wondered yet again how he had managed to persuade his superiors that I should be given the job—inexperienced, underage, and at a starting salary I had been told was exceptionally high.
My only recommendation had come from my Ph.D. advisor, who happened to be Vince Ferraro’s cousin. Professor Pierson, who had advised me since I arrived at Harvard, was adamant that I live ‘outside’ a while before entering law school.
In any case, Vince coveted my risk-averse, apparently profitable structures and approved of my person. I impressed him further (or more likely amused him), by saying flat-out that I couldn’t formulate these things any other way. No business culture would make me flip.
He said I was exactly what he wanted and must answer only to him.
Sterling escorted me down a wide, carpeted hallway to my office. Her large breasts and platform pumps complemented her impressive bearing. When she noticed, however, that her very high heels still left her several inches shorter than me, she hurried ahead—no doubt unaware of how appealing I found this perspective. The deep center vent in her jacket flared apart and flapped shut with every step.
My guess was that she was thirty, maybe a little more. That’s what I hoped. All through graduate school, my romantic partners had been women in their early thirties.
Inside my new office, sunlight poured through huge windows.
Sterling asked, ‘Do you want to face the Statue of Liberty or the trading floor?’
Before I could say, ‘Give me the statue,’ she said, ‘The floor.’
*
I arrived before 7:30 the next day because I needed to be there for the morning call—the daily routine in which Lehman’s trading desks around the world shared news and outlook. Before long, Sterling filled my doorway, holding a jumbo-sized cup of hazelnut coffee. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
The next morning, same thing. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
An image loomed of an enormous feline piercing the tip of my defenseless tongue. I said, ‘As it happens, today I’ve got the cat’s tongue. Want a peek?’
She made a face. ‘You’re awfully young. What if HR learned you were offering me “a peek at your tongue”? It’s called a double entendre, Walter.’
‘And is the name for your greeting called a trap?’
‘Be nice or I’ll write you up.’
‘I’m always nice, Sterling. In fact, I’m sorry. Let me buy you a drink after work.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘One drink, one time.’
‘You’re not even old enough to drink.’
‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’
She shifted her weight, and the effect of her arms folded beneath her breasts stirred me so that I had to look away. When I glanced up, I focused on her face, keeping mine straight.
‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘we should meet after work and review the rules.’
She proposed the bar downstairs, P. J. Clarke’s, at seven. We sat under an awning with a view of the marina. She ordered a cosmopolitan, and although I had no clue what that was—and was not carrying a fake ID—I said, ‘Make that two.’
The waiter brought dark-pink icy drinks and asked Sterling, ‘Does your handsome friend belong to you, or did you bring him for me?’
‘Can’t you tell?’
‘I will soon.’
The cosmopolitan tasted like a cranberry-flavored headache. I ordered a Heineken.
‘Does this answer my question?’ the waiter asked.
I confirmed that I was with Sterling but thanked him for his interest.
He liked that. ‘For once you’ve picked a good one, Sterling.’
She laughed, slightly embarrassed, and said she would drink my slushy cocktail.
I asked about her family. Her father, she said, had been a veterinarian in Maine. Her mother was his assistant until he died last year—heart failure. ‘Now my mom saves the whales.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, my father was insanely happy his whole life and not afraid of dying.’
‘Brave.’
‘Well, he wasn’t religious. But he lived a good life, which he said wasn’t as easy as it looked. The idea of nonexistence comforted him.’
‘Wise and brave.’ Why did my words sound so awful? I meant them, but they rang all wrong. Sterling didn’t flinch but stopped talking and leaned back, studying me. The waiter arrived with a third cosmopolitan, saving me from her gaze.
‘Three,’ he said, ‘and no more unless your friend is escorting you home.’
Sterling waved him away, as in not to worry.
‘What were you like growing up?’ I asked her.
Well. Her parents had named her Susan, a boring, moth-eaten name she changed upon entering college. ‘At eighteen. Not fourteen like you.’
I felt her remove her high heels and took it as a signal to make the first move—something I had never had to do before—my female professors had always taken care of that. I would need to persuade Sterling with charm and style I didn’t possess.
However, having already factored in the seriousness of an office romance, I was extremely serious. Halfway through her third drink, her complexion glowed evenly and her hair begged to be mussed.
‘What else?’ I asked.
She sighed, sipped, and reported: fat girl throughout childhood; college, no longer fat; first boyfriend; first heartbreak; revenge; a fiancé who ran away and good riddance.
‘Tit for tat,’ she said. ‘What’s your story?’
I’d tell her anything and everything, but would she like to walk? Twilight was falling soft and slow. She arched her back and nodded. I paid and tipped the waiter well. Glad he knew Sterling, glad he liked me, glad he hadn’t carded me—and most important, glad he had brought that third drink when he did.
Walking together under the esplanade’s shade trees, I said I loved the hour before the skyscrapers lit up.
‘None of that, Walter. You said you’d tell me everything.’
All right: my parents were scientists working to cure AIDS. Since I was eleven, they had been traveling the world, designing and refining antiretroviral drugs, leading conferences, conducting studies. And—paying Exeter to educate and care for me, even during holidays and through the summers.
My parents sounded great, battling the plague—whereas my new job made the rich richer. (I did not say that my family was inordinately rich, although my parents had always pretended otherwise.)
Almost invisible, the new moon hovered behind the Twin Towers, which were starting to glow. A single sailboat floated in the distance. And then, I heard myself say the one thing I had least intended to share. ‘When I was eleven, my sister died suddenly. She was seventeen.’ I cringed, hearing my words hang in the air. ‘She wasn’t like a mother to me,’ I added. (Perhaps the worst thing I could say.) I cleared my throat, glanced at Sterling, and grimaced apologetically.
‘Emily acted up in public once too often a
nd was picked up by the police. Before my parents sent her away, we acknowledged we would probably not see each other again.’
Sterling wanted more.
So I told her. When Emily died, I was at prep school. My parents were away on their lifesaving mission. ‘They wrote a note to me. Tragedies happen. They were bereft but couldn’t interrupt their work. I should keep studying.’
Had all that really just spewed from my mouth?
Skyscrapers blinked on. Sterling rested her fingertips on my wrist. ‘Your sister died and your parents wrote a note that didn’t explain why or how?’
I stepped back and stared at my feet. ‘Told you I’d tell you everything.’ A sigh and shuffle because I didn’t dare to look at her. ‘I’ve never gone into this with anyone before. The headmaster tried talking to me. But when I was eleven, all I wanted, because it looked like the only way to go, was to push straight up and out as fast as possible. My parents didn’t contact me, but they paid my way—summer school, tutors, the works. Exceptions were made for me, so I could test out of my age group. And then, out of high school and into Harvard. Where I was, just like you said, “a boy wonder.” After Ph.D.’s in economics and applied mathematics, my mentoring professor said it was time I tried a real job.’
Catching a sense of compassion in her eyes, I looked directly at Sterling and smiled. I didn’t raise a finger, except possibly in spirit, and offered this silly line, which I had polished in my dreams. ‘If your parents are esteemed by every dean in the land and you study like a madman howling at the moon, one day you, too, might wake up and find you’ve been transformed into a teenage mathematician.’
Sterling giggled, saying, ‘O-o-o-kay.’
After a pause, I invited her to dinner, swearing that I was an excellent cook.
‘Walter, I’m too old for you.’
‘No, you aren’t.’
‘If nothing else,’ she said, ‘consider the gap in experience.’
‘You don’t know how experienced I am. Anyway, we’re here.’ We came to a stop outside my building, a Battery Park City condo I’d been living in for two weeks. Vince found it for me. Nice, new, on the fourteenth floor, with a living room balcony facing the river.
