Authors: R.J. Ellory
Later his girlfriend, cute brunette called Patti Hayes, would ask Keith Kurtz how his day had been.
He’d smile, shrug his shoulders, and say, ‘Same ol’ same old. Another day, another dead guy,’ and she would kind of half-laugh and punch his shoulder playfully, and then ask him if he wanted to roll up a Jimmy Durante and get boosted.
That was Keith Kurtz’s life.
That was Yale Sonnenburg’s death.
Gary Sampson went running down the street, Alfredo Langa chasing him, and though Langa thought the cop had flipped because of the auto-shop guy he’d killed, it wasn’t that at all.
Detective Gary Sampson – twice decorated for valor, once commended by the Mayor’s Office, three times receiver of a one-eighty-one for excessive force – was really running away from something else.
Something to do with being Yale Sonnenburg’s best man maybe; something to do with telling Yale’s girlfriend she was a widow before she’d even started.
For a long while Evelyn Sawyer was quiet.
For a long while she said nothing at all. When the sense of frustration and grief became too much she climbed the stairs and stood in the upper landing for some minutes. Her breathing was shallow and indecisive, almost as if she was fighting something within.
After a while she turned and opened the door, stood for some minutes at the foot of the bed.
She could almost see everything as it had been. She could see Anne, the way her hair was spread across the pillow, the way her knees were tucked up towards her chest as if she’d experienced some terrible, constricting pain.
Many years had passed, and yet it was all here, as if it were mere moments ago.
A heartbeat. Less perhaps.
Evelyn backed up and turned around. She opened the facing door and stood looking into the room where her husband had killed himself.
Everything was here. 66 Carmine. The house she’d never been able to leave, never been able to walk away from. To leave would have been to betray them both. At least that’s what she’d felt. And both Anne and Garrett had been betrayed enough.
‘It’s coming to an end,’ she said.
Eventually she left the upper landing and went downstairs.
She lifted the telephone receiver from its cradle in the hallway and dialled the operator. ‘New York Police Department,’ she said.
She waited patiently, no more than thirty seconds or so.
‘Hello . . . er, yes. I’m not sure . . . I was trying to find a particular police detective.’
A moment’s silence.
‘Precinct number, no . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know that. His name? Yes, of course. His name is Frank Duchaunak.’
The line went silent and Evelyn Sawyer stood without moving. She looked towards the light coming through the frosted glass panel in the front door. The light was blurred through her tears.
After a while there was someone at the end of the line.
She listened, and then said: ‘No, no-one else . . . I need to speak with Detective Duchaunak only. Do you know when he’ll be available?’
She tilted her head to one side and frowned.
‘Oh . . . I see. Right. Yes, of course . . . thank you for your help. No, that’s fine thank you . . . goodbye.’
Gently, almost in slow-motion, she replaced the receiver in the cradle and bowed her head.
She could hear footsteps upstairs as they crossed the landing and reached the top of the stairs behind her.
But for that sound – in itself no sound at all – 66 Carmine was silent.
The Hollander woman looked even better.
Perhaps she did it on purpose, Harper thought.
Even her voice on the telephone, her seeming concern for his welfare, the sense of empathy he felt as she told him she understood how difficult things must be – all of it seemed so effortlessly simple, and yet so perfectly effective. She had rejected him. That was the truth. And yet the way she spoke it seemed that everything was how it was before.
What was it about Cathy Hollander that made him feel so defenceless?
They arrived within twenty minutes. Where she’d called from Harper didn’t know, didn’t ask, but it was almost as if he wanted to see no-one but her. Walt came too, smiling, generous of word and action, bearing gifts – a bottle of liquor, a carton of Luckies, his smile high, wide and handsome. All of these things communicating a sense of warmth and fraternity, as if here – here in this small heartbeat of New York – they were all in this together.
‘You look good,’ Walt told him. ‘You got some rest?’
‘I got some rest, yes.’
‘I’ll fetch some glasses,’ Cathy said. ‘We’ll have a drink.’
Walt went to the window, looked out over the city. ‘There is little that can compare to New York at this time of year.’ His tone was measured and calm; he seemed effortlessly in control of himself – unhurried, at ease. ‘And New York is the most beautiful city in the world?’ He turned and smiled at Harper. ‘It is not far from it. No urban night is like the night out there. Squares after squares of flame, set up and cut into the ether. Here is our poetry, for we have pulled the stars down to our will.’
Harper frowned.
‘Ezra Pound,’ Walt said, and stepped forward. ‘There’s a little culture for the evening.’
Cathy handed him a glass, one also to Harper.
‘I have been here for as long as I can recall, and yet Christmastime in New York always seems to possess an air of magic that is inimitable.’ Walt raised his glass. ‘A toast,’ he said. ‘To Edward, to health, wealth and happiness . . . and to the spirit of Christmas in New York.’
Cathy laughed. ‘Such theater,’ she said. She turned and smiled at Harper, a warm and effusive expression of affection it seemed. ‘I can’t take him anywhere,’ she quipped.
‘It’s good to see you Sonny,’ Walt said. He looked down at the glass in his hand. It appeared he was trying to find the words to say what he wished. ‘I have . . . I have been worried—’
‘Worried?’ Harper asked.
Walt smiled, shook his head. ‘Well . . . no. Worried is perhaps a little too strong. I have been thinking about your position here, how hard it has been for you. You’ve been here how long?’
‘Last Monday,’ Harper said. ‘I’ve been here a week.’
‘Christ almighty, just a week? Seems you’ve been here . . . God, I don’t know how long.’ Walt stepped away from the window, pulled the chair out from under a small table against the wall. Sitting sideways, his left arm on the back, he indicated the sofa to his right. ‘Sit down Cathy,’ he said. Cathy did so, and then Harper made his way to the bed and sat also.
‘Like I said, I’ve been thinking,’ he went on. ‘A great deal of things have happened in a very short time. Thing have been said—’
‘Walt, you don’t need to—’ Harper cut in.
Walt raised his hand. ‘It’s okay. This isn’t a lecture. There’s just a couple of things that have been playing on my mind and I wanted to get them out, you know?’
Harper didn’t respond; Walt Freiberg was going to speak whether Harper wished him to or not.
‘Things have been difficult since your father . . . since Edward was shot,’ he said. For a moment he looked away, his expression pensive. There was a depth to his eyes, maybe nothing more than shadows, perhaps the way the light fell, that created the impression of a man exhausted. Walt Freiberg seemed somehow
burdened despite his calmness; that was the only way Harper could describe it.
‘For many years we have worked together.’ He waved his hand nonchalantly. ‘Now it is not a matter of what we have done, the business we have been involved in . . . that is not the point we are discussing.’ He looked directly at Harper. ‘This is not a moral issue John. This is an issue of justice and rectitude.’
Harper frowned. ‘Justice?’
Walt nodded. ‘Justice and rectitude.’
‘How so?’
‘Ben Marcus.’
‘Ben Marcus? I don’t understand.’
Walt Freiberg set his glass on the small table beside him. He turned the chair beneath him and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. For a while he said nothing, looking down at the floor, looking at his own hands as he steepled his fingers together. When he looked up the shadows beneath his eyes seemed even deeper.
‘Ben Marcus. Hell, Sonny, Ben Marcus needs to pay for what he’s done to Edward.’
‘To pay? Pay for what Walt? I’m missing something here.’
‘Jesus, isn’t it the easiest thing in the world to understand?’ For a moment he looked angry, and then his face suddenly calmed. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at the situation.’ He smiled awkwardly, shook his head.
‘I still don’t get the thing about Ben Marcus—’
‘It’s really simple. Ben Marcus ordered the shooting of your father, and I, for one, cannot let this lie John . . . I just cannot let this thing lie.’
Harper shook his head. ‘I spoke to Frank Duchaunak—’
Freiberg frowned. ‘Duchaunak was here?’
‘Oh, come on Walt, don’t take me for a complete idiot. I know very well that you’re aware that Duchaunak was here. Don’t insult me by telling me you haven’t been watching every move I’ve made since I arrived.’
Freiberg smiled broadly. He looked at Cathy. ‘Smart guy eh? Didn’t I tell you that this was a smart fucking guy?’
Cathy nodded, and for a moment it seemed she didn’t know where to look.
‘And don’t patronize me either, Walt. And don’t call me
Sonny. And don’t think that I’ve spent a week in New York wandering around with my eyes closed.’
Walt Freiberg raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Hey John, don’t get me wrong—’
‘I’m not getting you wrong, Walt. I’m getting you right. I’m here for a reason. God knows why but you insisted that Evelyn get me here. I want to know why. I want you to tell me
exactly
why you brought me here. I want you to tell me the truth, and none of this half-assed bullshit about this, that and the goddamned other. Tell me what you want, tell me now, and at the same time tell me how much I’m going to get out of it.’
‘How much—’
Harper turned to Cathy. ‘Will you tell him that I’m not stupid? He doesn’t seem to be hearing me too well.’
Cathy started to say something but was interrupted by Walt Freiberg.
‘You’re misunderstanding me, John,’ he started.
‘No Walt,
you
are misunderstanding
me
. I’ve been played like some dumb country hick farmhand out of the back-end of nowhere for the past seven days, by you, by Evelyn, and by this crazy fucking cop. I want to know exactly what is going on. I want to know
precisely
what you people are doing, what
precisely
it has to do with me, and if there’s something you need my help with then I’m going to want to come away from here with an awful lot more than I arrived with.
Now
do we understand one another?’
Walt Freiberg nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said quietly. ‘First things first . . . tell me what the cop told you.’
Harper smiled, shook his head. ‘What the cop told me doesn’t matter. The cop is crazy. That guy paid I don’t know how many thousands of dollars for a goddamned baseball. He’s been suspended. He’s off whatever case he thought he was on. He doesn’t have a hope of coming anywhere near whatever the hell you’re doing because even his own people think he’s lost it.’
‘Whatever,’ Freiberg said. ‘He came here to tell you something . . . what did he say?’
‘He told me that Ben Marcus could not have put a hit on my father.’
Freiberg nodded. He looked down at the floor once more and
shook his head. ‘And why did he think that Ben Marcus could not have done this?’
‘Because, according to the CCTV footage from that night, the robbery was already taking place before my father’s car even reached the curb. The guy with the gun was in the liquor store seven minutes before my father even showed up.’
‘Right,’ Freiberg said. He reached into his pocket, took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. ‘Do you know what Cabernet Sauvignon is?’
Harper frowned. ‘It’s a type of wine.’
‘Right, yes. It is a type of wine. There are many different types of Cabernet produced, and your father was partial to a particular variety. It wasn’t that expensive, forty, maybe fifty dollars a bottle, but he liked it a great deal.’
‘And the point of telling me this?’
‘The store where he was shot ordered that wine for your father. They ordered it in especially for him. He asked them to, and they were more than happy to oblige. Sunday nights he would drive over there and collect a case of that wine for the forthcoming week.’
Freiberg paused to light a cigarette.
‘It wasn’t difficult,’ Freiberg went on. ‘It was simply a matter of knowing a little of Edward’s routine. Edward was not a frightened man. He wouldn’t have even given the issue a second thought, wouldn’t have changed his routine even if he’d been told that someone was going to hit him there. Your father would merely have gone there with a couple of people, that’s all. Your father . . . well, he didn’t change what he wanted to do for anyone.’
Harper didn’t say a word.
‘So it was not difficult to have someone there. It was no remarkable feat on Marcus’s part to predict approximately when Edward would be there. He could quite easily have had cellphone contact with some hoodlum outside the store. Marcus has Edward’s car followed, and as soon as he starts making his way towards the store the call goes out, the shooter goes in the store, the thing kicks off just in time for Edward to show up. All Marcus’s shooter has to do is keep that robbery going until Edward shows up. It was a simple effect . . . an illusion was created, and in that way anyone who believed it was a vendetta
between Marcus and your father would have been easily convinced that it was not. Why? Because the shooter was already in the store before Edward arrived.’
Harper looked at Cathy. She nodded her head to confirm what Freiberg had said. ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘Most times I would go down there with him. I know the store, must’ve been there twenty, thirty times.’
‘So that’s how complicated it was,’ Freiberg said. ‘And that little trick certainly fooled your cop.’
‘He’s not
my
cop,’ Harper said.
‘He’s not?’ Freiberg asked.
‘What the fuck is this? What are you asking me that for?’