Authors: R.J. Ellory
Harper leaned forward. The cigarette he held had burned down to the filter. He dropped it in the ashtray. ‘What do you mean, Ev? Their deaths were five years apart . . . they weren’t connected.’
Her expression changed. It was nothing, and yet it was something. Enough to cause Harper to lean his head to one side and look at his aunt more closely. The shift was like the shadow of a cloud across a field. Harper was beneath it as it passed, and he felt that second of transient coolness.
‘What?’ she asked, noticing the way he looked at her. She sounded defensive.
‘You tell me.’
‘There isn’t anything
to
tell.’
‘They were connected,’ Harper said matter-of-factly. ‘Tell me how their deaths were connected, Ev.’
‘They were
not
connected,’ she said. She scowled. Her features were cold, her eyes flinty. ‘Your mother died of pneumonia. Five years later Garrett took his own life.’
‘Did he do that? Did he really take his own life?’
‘What the hell is this?’ she said. ‘What the hell is going on here? You’ve been talking to that crazy cop, what was his name? Frank something-or-other . . .’
‘Duchaunak.’
‘That’s the one. He’s been speaking to you—’
‘And to you it seems. He came here, didn’t he? He asked you about my mother and Garrett, didn’t he? He asked what happened to them and you told him something that you haven’t told me. I’m right, aren’t I?’ Harper leaned forward, his tone of voice insistent. ‘Aren’t I?’
Evelyn leaned back. She shook her head slowly. ‘I think you should leave now, John. I really think I’ve had enough of this kind of talk.’
Harper leaned back; he smiled coldly. ‘I’m not leaving, Ev. I’m not leaving until you tell me what happened. Tell me the truth
about them . . . tell me the truth about your sister and your husband. What happened to them, Ev? Tell me what really happened to them all those years ago—’
‘Enough!’ she snapped. Her voice was loud, sudden, harsh, abrupt. ‘Enough for God’s sake!’ She looked away. She was incensed, furious. She turned back to Harper after a moment, and the directness of her gaze unnerved him. It had been many, many years since Evelyn Sawyer had pinned him with such a stare. ‘I don’t give a damn what you think . . . you have no right, no right whatsoever, coming here and telling me what I should and shouldn’t tell you. You want to come back here and get involved with these people then that’s your own responsibility, and you cannot hold me accountable for what might happen—’
‘I hold you accountable for the truth,’ Harper said. He was angry. His fists were clenched. ‘I spoke to Duchaunak and he told me—’
‘Aah, what the hell does he know?’
‘More than I do, but not as much as you, right? How come it’s my parents we’re talking about, and yet I’m the one who knows the least about them?’
‘Because there are some things it is best
not
to know.’
Harper shook his head. ‘I’m not thirteen, Ev. I’m not a kid any more. I went away and grew up. I did a whole load of things in the years I was away—’
‘But evidently failed to learn a very simple lesson.’
Harper frowned.
‘To leave the past where it is, and to stay out of things that can do no good. You come back here—’
‘You
insisted
I come back here, Ev . . . you remember the phone calls you made to Nancy Young, and calling the newspaper? You remember doing that?’
Evelyn didn’t respond.
‘You
insisted
I come down here, Evelyn, you made it almost impossible for me to refuse.’
‘I know, I know—’
‘And now I’m here, here at your request, you’re doing everything you can to send me back to Miami. You and the cop. So tell me, tell me why you are so goddamned frightened about what I might find out? Is it about Anne? Eh? Is it about my mother?’ Harper leaned forward. He felt tension in his stomach,
anger rising in his chest. ‘Or is it about the mysterious, dying Edward Bernstein? Is that who this is really all about?’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about—’
‘Well, of course I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, Evelyn! No-one in this goddamned city seems to have a straight answer for anything!’ Harper banged his fist on the table and Evelyn jumped. For a split-second she looked afraid.
Really
afraid. Harper held his fist there for a moment, right there ahead of him, like if there had been something to hit there would have been nothing to prevent him.
Evelyn looked back at Harper with a cold, hard glare.
‘Speak Evelyn . . . speak before I break something, for Christ’s sake.’
‘You don’t want to hear what I have to say—’
‘What you have to say is
exactly
what I want to hear! Goddamnit, what is it going to take to get someone to say something direct around here?’
‘You know how long that cop has been after your father?’
‘Duchaunak? No, I don’t know, Evelyn. Pray tell me. How long has Frank Duchaunak been after my father?’
‘Seven years, a little more. November of 1997 he started gunning for Edward Bernstein, and in all that time, regardless of an apparent complete lack of support from his department, he has not quit. Evidently he had reason enough, don’t you think?’
Harper watched Evelyn. She was animated, her words sharp and quick, directed right at him.
Harper closed his eyes and shook his head. He could feel the tension and pressure, could see how his knuckles had whitened. He experienced a moment of clear and instinctive foreboding, an unmistakable, intuitive gut-reaction that told him to back up and walk away.
‘Reason enough?’ he asked, and even as he asked it he wondered whether he wanted to hear the answer.
‘Edward Bernstein has been Duchaunak’s raison d’être for the last seven years; that’s how it seems to me.’
‘Is that what he said?’
Evelyn laughed. ‘No, of course he didn’t say that. Frank Duchaunak was appropriately obscure in everything that he said. He even lied to me.’
‘What did he lie about?’
‘About his motivation for following your father for all this time.’
‘What did he say?’
Evelyn shook her head. ‘It was not what he said, it was what he didn’t say.’
Harper waited for her to speak. She lit another cigarette.
‘And?’ he prompted.
‘I asked him how long he’d been after your father. He told me seven years. Told me he’d started back in November of ‘97. I asked him if someone had died, and he told me no.’
Evelyn fell silent. For a moment she looked as if she wasn’t done, but Harper sat there for some seconds before he realized that nothing further was coming.
‘He told you no,’ Harper stated matter-of-factly.
Evelyn nodded. ‘Right, he told me no.’
‘That no-one had died.’
Evelyn nodded once again.
Harper shook his head. ‘I’ve lost the thread here, Evelyn . . . I’m not sure what you’re saying.’
She smiled, but the smile said something of bitterness and regret. ‘It’s not difficult, John. You’re a bright boy, always have been. Duchaunak started pursuing your father because of something that happened in 1997, November of 1997. I asked him if he started after your father because someone had died, and he lied. He told me no.’
‘So someone did die?’ Harper asked.
‘Oh yes,’ Evelyn replied. ‘Someone died alright . . . someone most definitely went and died.’
Cathy Hollander stands in the front room of her apartment, receiver in her hand. Waiting.
‘Hi . . . yes, hi there. I was on hold . . . I think I got cut off. I called a minute or so ago. I was after—’
Interrupted. Pauses. Listens.
‘Yes, that’s right, John Harper.’
Waits another moment.
‘Right, okay. Yes . . . er no, no problem. Thanks for your help.’
Shakes her head. Frowns. Hangs up. Lifts the receiver again and dials another number.
‘It’s me.’
Glances left towards the window.
‘Gone out somewhere. Left a couple of hours ago.’
Listens. Looks down at her shoeless feet.
‘No, I didn’t leave a message. I’ll come over to the house like you said. I’ll check after lunch.’
Nods understandingly.
‘Sure thing Walt, sure thing. Okay, see you in a little while.’
Nods once more. ‘Okay, goodbye.’ Hangs up. Sets the phone down on the counter. Pauses in the doorway for a moment. Expression pensive, uncharacteristically deep, and then Cathy Hollander leaves the kitchen and walks across the front room to her bedroom.
Faulkner stands as Duchaunak bursts through the door of the office.
‘Where?’ Duchaunak asks.
‘Alleyway off of West Fifteenth and Seventh.’
‘Sure it was there? He wasn’t killed someplace else and moved?’
Faulkner shakes his head. ‘Hell Frank, we don’t know . . . guy was so frozen they have to defrost him before they can do the autopsy.’
Duchaunak frowns, angles his head to one side, starts laughing – kind of an awkward laugh precipitated by facts that seem wilder than fiction.
‘At a guess he was killed last night, we don’t know when, won’t know for sure until the coroner’s done his thing, but whenever it was, they left him in the alleyway all night and he froze solid . . . froze like a fucking popsicle.’
‘Aah, Jesus Christ, what the fuck is going on here?’
Faulkner frowns.
‘This thing, this goddamned thing. We got Lenny laid up in Vincent’s, his son has disappeared, and now Johnnie Hoy, one of the only people who ever gave us anything that we could use on Bernstein gets knifed in the fucking eye and left out in the cold for some poor kid to find.’
‘You think that’s why he was killed?’
‘I don’t think, Don, I
know
that’s why he was done. Freiberg and Marcus are doing something, maybe separate, maybe
together, but whatever the fuck it is there’s gonna be some housework.’
Faulkner shakes his head. He sighs exhaustedly and sits down. ‘It’s going to be bad, isn’t it?’
Duchaunak nods slowly. ‘As bad as it gets and then some, I reckon.’
‘I can take my annual vacation now?’
Duchaunak laughs. ‘Sure, Don, sure . . . have a good time. Send me a freakin’ postcard okay?’
‘So now?’
Duchaunak opens his mouth to speak.
The phone rings.
He leans forward, lifts the receiver. ‘Yep.’
Eyes widen, starts to frown.
‘Where?’
Nods, snaps his fingers at Faulkner.
Pen
, he mouths.
Faulkner leans across with a pen. Duchaunak takes it, writes something on the jotter ahead of him.
‘Pier 49,’ he says. ‘Good enough, Mike . . . many thanks.’
Duchaunak sets down the receiver. Looks across at Faulkner.
‘Mike Donnelly at Despatch . . . just took a call for a black and white out near Pier 49.’
‘For what?’
Duchaunak shakes his head. ‘Get your coat, we’re going out there.’
Faulkner starts to rise. ‘But it isn’t ours, Frank. How can we just go out on some random call when we haven’t been given it?’
‘It isn’t a random call, Don.’ Duchaunak is by the door, turning the handle, opening
‘What, Frank? What the fuck is it?’
Duchaunak is out and down the corridor. Faulkner goes after him, tugging his coat on as he goes. Nearly loses his balance at the end, one hand against the wall, picking up speed as Duchaunak starts to run.
Harper was shaking his head.
‘You don’t want to hear about this, do you?’ Evelyn asked. ‘You want to hear about your father, what happened with him and your mother, right?’
Closed his eyes. Tension was visible in everything about him. Wound up tight; watch-spring tight.
‘You going to say something?’
Harper slowly shook his head again, eyes were open but he was looking at the floor. He found it hard to breathe, a tightness in his chest that was suffocating.
‘You want a drink or something?’
‘No Evelyn . . . just give me a minute will you . . . just need a minute or two.’
Evelyn leaned back. There was something relaxed in her manner, almost as if telling the truth had taken the weight and tension from her shoulders and passed them to Harper. She did not seemed pleased that he was suffering, evidently suffering, but she did seem relieved that whatever she’d told him was no longer held tight inside her like a clenched fist.
‘What d’you want me to say, John? I kept all of this away from you. All those years I knew what was going on. I knew what he was like, the people he associated with. That’s why things were so difficult here. He sent Walt Freiberg over here; time and again the man came with things for you. Money, clothes, toys, things for your birthday, for Christmas. Keeping those people out of your life was a full-time job in itself. You don’t even know the half of it—’
‘So tell me,’ Harper said. ‘Tell me the half of it that you never told me before . . . for Christ’s sake Evelyn, tell me
anything
.’
Evelyn looked fatigued, not just tired but fatigued; the bone-deep exhaustion that comes from carrying something that
drains every ounce of strength from within, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally.
‘The late-night phone calls, the threats. Times I would go to collect you from school and Walt Freiberg would be there in the street, right there in the street standing beside a car, and in the car was your father watching every move you made. One time . . . one time I went to get you and they were there. I couldn’t see you anywhere, not in the street, not in the yard behind the school, and I was convinced they’d taken you, convinced that finally he’d persuaded you to get in the back of that car and they were just taunting me, letting me know that they had the money and the power to make anything happen the way they wanted. They scared the hell out of me. Those people really, really scared the hell out of me.’
‘I never knew any of this—’
Evelyn laughed, suddenly, abruptly. ‘What could I have told you? Your mother died when you were seven years old. Your father left when you were two . . . I say
left
when you were two, but hell John, Edward Bernstein was leaving from the moment he found out Anne was pregnant. I knew who these people were long before your mother ever confronted the truth. She fell in love with whatever she believed Edward Bernstein was . . . she even convinced herself that he wanted you, that he would have stayed and raised a family.’