Authors: R.J. Ellory
‘Is that really why she died . . . because she couldn’t escape?’
Evelyn looked down at her hands. She held her own glass carefully, as if afraid to break it. ‘She used to speak to me of how difficult it all was. Used to tell me things that she never would have told Edward, never would have told Garrett. I was her sister, we were closer than anything . . .’ Evelyn looked up. ‘Your mother never did anything by halves John. If she did something then she really did it. When she fell in love with Edward she
really
fell in love. It was never an insubstantial thing with Anne, never half-minded. Finally, after she realized that he wasn’t going to be your father, wasn’t ever going to be her husband, she felt there was no reason for her to go on. And then she took the most certain way out. Like I said, she never did anything by halves.’
‘And he knew that she committed suicide?’
‘Edward? Of course he knew. He came here afterwards, the day of your mother’s funeral, and he tried to take you away from me. Garrett stood up to him. Garrett knew what Edward Bernstein was capable of, but nevertheless he stood up to him.’ Evelyn smiled. ‘Don’t know that I was ever more proud of Garrett than I was that day.’
‘Where was I?’
‘I sent you away with a friend of mine . . . you remember a woman called Francine? Had a daughter, a year or so younger than you called Grace?’
Harper shook his head. ‘I don’t know . . . vaguely, I think.’
‘I sent you to her house for a few days. She took care of you until everything was over.’
‘What happened?’
Evelyn closed her eyes for a second. ‘You really want to know?’
‘Of course, Ev.’
‘He came and told me that he was your father, that he had a right to you now. He said that Anne would have wanted it that way, that she would have wanted you to be with him.’
‘And you didn’t agree?’
Evelyn laughed suddenly. ‘Agree with him? God no, not a prayer. I didn’t even have to think about it, and neither did Garrett. I don’t think Garrett knew what he was taking on, but he stood right there in the doorway—’ Evelyn raised her hand and pointed at the exit to the front hallway – ‘Right there. Garrett stood right there and prevented Edward from coming in here. I can see them now, Edward looking over Garrett’s shoulder and shouting at me, demanding that I tell him where you were. Garrett didn’t back down.’ Evelyn paused, smiled to herself.
‘What?’
‘He was scared. Garrett was scared alright. He had his hand behind his back and I could see him clenching his fist, his knuckles all white. He would never have raised his hand to Edward, never in a million years, but that day I believe he was ready to do whatever it took.’
‘And you thought it best I stay unaware of all of this . . . all these years?’
Evelyn said nothing for a moment, and then she smiled ruefully. ‘I asked something of that detective,’ she said. ‘Asked him if he’d ever made a decision, ever said something untrue because he thought it was best, and then couldn’t go backwards and undo the damage. That was how it was, John. I did what I thought was right at the time, and then the more time went on the more I felt it wasn’t necessary.’
‘Until now.’
Evelyn shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know, maybe . . . Christ, John, how can you ever judge what you would have done had circumstances been different? If Walt hadn’t called, if he hadn’t insisted I call you I don’t know what I would have done. Maybe I would’ve let Edward die—’
‘Maybe he won’t die, maybe he’ll recover.’
‘When did you go over there last?’
Harper thought for a moment. ‘Yesterday. They have him in a room by himself, like an intensive care room.’
‘If there’s any justice in the world he will die,’ Evelyn said coldly.
‘I don’t think Detective Duchaunak wants him to die.’
‘I think you’re right,’ Evelyn replied. ‘I think for some considerable time our detective has been obsessed with Edward Bernstein.’
‘You were going to tell me about that. There was someone who died back then? When was it, 1997?’
Evelyn nodded. She didn’t speak.
‘And he told me some things about a girl that hangs around with Walt Freiberg, a girl who was apparently involved with Edward for some months, and then before that with someone called Marcus.’
‘Ben Marcus?’ Evelyn asked.
Harper looked up.
Evelyn’s eyes were wide, her expression anxious, and Harper said ‘Yes, Ben Marcus. Why? You know him?’
‘Of him . . . I know
of
him,’ she said. ‘Walt Freiberg is involved with Ben Marcus now?’
‘I don’t know Evelyn. I don’t seem to know a great deal of anything going on here, remember?’
Evelyn leaned forward. ‘You shouldn’t see him again John,’ she said. Her voice was quiet but direct. ‘I know you won’t go back to Miami, not until you know what happens with your father, but—’
‘Duchaunak said the same thing,’ Harper interjected. ‘That I should leave New York.’
‘He said it for a reason,’ Evelyn said.
‘What is it with him? Why is he so obsessed with my father?’
Evelyn shook her head and sighed. ‘Because he believes that Edward is responsible for all of his unhappiness.’
Harper frowned. ‘You what?’
‘Detective Duchaunak believes that Edward Bernstein destroyed his life.’
‘Destroyed his life? Isn’t that a little melodramatic?’
‘No, John, not melodramatic. Not when you understand what happened to him.’
Harper leaned forward. ‘So what happened?’
Evelyn smiled, almost sardonically. ‘He believes that Edward was responsible for the death of Marilyn Monroe.’
Harper started laughing. ‘What the hell—’
‘I’ll tell you,’ Evelyn interjected. ‘I’ll tell you what happened back in November of ’97.’
Captain Michael McLuhan. Third generation Irish-American; face like a wrestling match. Sharp words, often abrupt, a naturally awkward and aggressive nature. Seven kids though, eldest nineteen, youngest eleven; almost one a year once he got started, and when he spoke of them his entire demeanor and manner changed. When he talked of his children he could have been some compassionate gentle soul. Cops who worked for him knew him well. When he called – when he wanted some facetime – well, if you were smart you opened your mouth first, opened it as soon as you entered his office. Smart cops in trouble said ‘Captain McLuhan, how are the kids doing?’ as the very first thing, and the stripes he gave them for whatever they’d done were always less in number and scarred infrequently. Mention his family before he got a chance to tear you a new asshole, and the odds were on coming out of that office still walking straight.
Now it was Duchaunak and Faulkner, both of them seated on the other side of his desk.
‘So?’ Captain McLuhan asked Duchaunak.
‘Micky Levin,’ Duchaunak replied.
‘No question?’
‘No question.’
‘And we had a dead Johnnie Hoy a little while ago.’
Duchaunak nodded. ‘We did indeed.’
‘And your take on this?’
‘They’re starting a war.’
‘A war?’ McLuhan leaned back in his chair. He put his hands behind his head.
‘A war.’
‘Between . . . ?’
‘Walt Freiberg and Ben Marcus.’
McLuhan nodded. He glanced at Faulkner. Faulkner said
nothing; carried the slightly distant expression of a man who was on the edge of a fight and wasn’t looking to get hurt.
‘And why would there be a war starting between Walt Freiberg and Ben Marcus?’
Duchaunak frowned. ‘The territories?’ he said, a rhetorical question, his tone a little disbelieving. ‘That, and the fact that I believe Ben Marcus did the hit on Lenny Bernstein. You know about the bullet—’
‘Bullet?’ McLuhan asked. ‘Oh, let me think now . . . do you mean the bullet that they dug out of Lenny Bernstein which matched some gun used in a robbery thirty years ago?’
‘Yes,’ Duchaunak said. ‘Garrett Sawyer was questioned on that robbery. Garrett was married to Evelyn Sawyer, and she was the sister of Anne Harper who had a child with Bernstein—’
McLuhan rolled his eyes, then looked at Faulkner with an expression that spoke of patience stretched to its limit. ‘You’re still hobby-horsing this whole thing, aren’t you? The number of conversations you and I have had about Edward Bernstein and Walt Freiberg, about Marcus and Neumann and the whole lot of them—’
‘For very good reason—’ Duchaunak started.
‘Don’t interrupt me, Frank,’ McLuhan said sharply. He withdrew his hands from the back of his head and gripped the arms of the chair. ‘I am not in a good mood today. Not only do I have to deal with you pair, I have to deal with some whacko who’s killed a brother and a sister, beat the pair of them to death on different days in different places. The girl was a nurse for Christ’s sake, Jessica McCaffrey, and Sampson has to go tell her relatives that both her and her brother have been killed. I am already a man on the edge, and the last thing I need is to be interrupted while I’m talking. There are very few things that upset me more than being interrupted Detective Duchaunak.’
Duchaunak nodded apologetically.
‘Right then. You never saw the Department Counsellor, am I right?’
‘I saw her.’
McLuhan nodded slowly. ‘Right, you saw her . . . and how many
times
did you see her Frank?’
Duchaunak hesitated.
‘Frank?’
‘Once,’ Duchaunak said.
‘Right . . . you saw her once. And she scheduled weekly meetings for you that were supposed to continue until further notice.’
‘I saw her, Captain, I saw the woman.’
‘You saw her once, Frank.
Once
.’
‘You ever seen her?’ Duchaunak asked. ‘The woman is about as useful as a solar-powered torch.’
Faulkner withheld himself from laughing. He turned away, raised his hand to his face and cleared his throat.
McLuhan glared at him.
‘I did go and see her, Captain. I went and told her and she asked me all manner of bullshit questions about whether or not my father hugged me enough when I was a kid. Christ, the thing was like a made-for-TV fucking movie—’
‘It was a requirement Frank, a fucking
requirement
of your evaluation. It wasn’t a nice fucking idea. It wasn’t a go-and-have-chat-with-the-nice-shrink-lady-when-you-feel-like-it-and-everything’s-going-to-be-fine. It was a condition . . . let me say that again. It was a
condition
of you staying on the job. The fact that you didn’t do it and you are not already suspended is by the sheer fucking grace of God. That, and the fact that you pair of smashers actually manage to get some halfway-decent results on something useful every once in a while. Now we’re back in here trawling through the same old routine again. Frank Duchaunak and his obsession—’
Duchaunak opened his mouth to speak.
McLuhan raised his hand, extended a finger and wagged it back and forth like a stern teacher. ‘Listen to what I’m saying, Frank. We are back in here talking to you about the same fucking obsession you have with these people. It’s Bernstein and Marcus, Neumann, Freiberg, Charlie Beck . . . and then you have all of their goddamned families back of them. Where’s Raymond Dietz and Albert Reiff? And who’s that other asshole you keep going on about?’
‘Joe Koenig,’ Duchaunak said.
‘Right, Koenig . . . Joe Koenig . . . so where the fuck are these guys this time?’
Duchaunak looked sideways at Faulkner, and then he turned
back to McLuhan. ‘They’re around, Captain. They’re always around.’
‘Is that so?’
Duchaunak looked back without expression.
‘And they’re around now? I mean . . . I mean they’re right here in this room now Frank? Are they with you all the time? Do you hear their voices when you go to fucking sleep at night?’
Duchaunak closed his eyes and shook his head. He looked overwhelmed, at the end of some internal road and now uncertain of where he’d believed it would take him.
‘For God’s sake, Frank, Edward Bernstein is in the hospital dying of a gunshot wound. Who knows that his own people didn’t set the thing up to have him out the way—’
‘We know it wasn’t a set-up, Captain. We know that it wasn’t a planned shooting.’
McLuhan nodded. ‘I’ve seen the security footage yes, but it doesn’t change the fact that once again we are walking down the same beaten-to-shit path and there isn’t anything at the end but your fertile and overactive imagination.’
‘But there’s something else now, Captain—’
‘I know there’s something else, Frank . . . there’s two dead something-elses, but that does not, I repeat
does not
change the fact that you have no standard assignment authority, no backup, no departmental protocol behind you. You are, and not for the first time I might add, flying by the seat of your fucking pants. Jesus, you guys are like Wing and a Prayer Incorporated. I have nightmares about what you pair are doing. I wake up in the early hours of the morning in a cold sweat worrying about what thunderstorm of shit you’re going to bring down on me tomorrow. Can you not let Homicide just do its job with Levin and Hoy? Can you not let Edward Bernstein, who may or may not be the Devil Incarnate and all his unholy tribes in human form, die in fucking peace in St Vincent’s Hospital? And now this thing about Bernstein’s son? Where the fuck in left field of all left fields did that motherfucker come from?’
‘Miami.’
‘Hey! It’s not a fucking joke, Frank! You think I’m joking? I
look
like I’m joking here?’ McLuhan’s face reddened, his eyes like hot dark stones. ‘Pretty easy to tell when I’m joking, Frank . . .
I’m the first one to fucking laugh. You see me laughing? You see me laughing, Frank? No? I didn’t fucking think so—’
‘Captain McLuhan—’
‘No Frank! That’s it! That’s
fucking
it! Enough is enough! You’re on suspension.’ He turned and looked at Faulkner. ‘You’re reassigned to—’ He stopped mid-sentence. ‘What the fuck am I thinking? Fuck you too! You’re on suspension as well. Frank Duchaunak and Don Faulkner are suspended.’
‘You have to be—’ Duchaunak started.
‘I have to be
what
Frank? I have to be insane not to have done this a month ago. Out of my office. Let me deal with my two homicides. Let me assign some real homicide detectives to this thing, and you pair can go off and sit in a diner somewhere for a fortnight and feel repentant about all the stress and high blood pressure you have caused, and work out how the fuck Edward Bernstein arranged the assassination of JFK and started the Iraq fucking war from his hospital bed. Christ, you pair are probably responsible for decreasing my lifespan by about five fucking years!’