The Night, The Day (16 page)

chapter 26

J
acques Benoît hastened from his
limousine into the bank. He was taking chances, but he gave himself no choice. He knew it shouldn’t bother him that he was still being watched; after all, he went to the bank all the time. Still, he was nervous. This visit was different.

The manager met him at the entrance, as usual. “Good afternoon, Mr. Benoît. How are you today?”

“Fine, Charles, and how are you?”

“Very well,” the manager answered uncomfortably. Numerous times, he had asked Benoît to call him Chuck –
My friends call me Chuck
– and never had Benoît obliged. “What can we do for you today?” he asked, trying to remain businesslike.

“The vault, please.”

“Yes, of course.”

The manager escorted Benoît to the vault. As he opened the file drawer for the signature card, he turned to Benoît and whispered, “Which one?”

Benoît looked at the man oddly. True, the presence of a second, and secret, vault box was a private arrangement between him and the manager – an arrangement for which the manager had been aptly rewarded – but there was no reason to whisper when they were the only ones in the room. No reason other than the manager trying to accentuate the fact the he and the billionaire shared a secret. Realizing that it was getting harder for him to suffer fools, Benoît recomposed his face and smiled. “My own,” he replied, excluding the box that he shared with his wife.

The manager turned the keys and extracted the box. He carried it as he led Benoît to a private room. “If there is anything else, Mr. Benoît…”

“Thank you, Charles, that will be all.”

Benoît stared at the box. It had been decades since he had opened it. A wave of dread came upon him, a feeling he didn’t understand. He was alone and no one knew what he was doing. He was simply going to open the box, remove the object, place it in his pocket and leave the bank. What was there to worry about?

But deep down he knew it wasn’t his fear of getting caught anymore. In fact, it wasn’t fear at all. It was disgust, his own personal abhorrence of what he had done, who he had been, and his desire to somehow erase it all. Contained in this box was the one thing he had saved, his sole connection to the past. It was strange to him how his motives for keeping it had changed over time. At first, it was a trophy, a symbol of the power he’d had over others to take whatever he wanted. And now it signified his greatest weakness.

He opened the box and looked at the small manila jeweler’s envelope contained within. He took the envelope and held it for a moment, thinking that perhaps he should just put it in his pocket and leave. There was no reason to torture himself needlessly. Or was there?

It dawned on him that at some point he would have to face himself; otherwise, there was no way he could complete his plan. Suddenly, with determination, he opened the envelope and removed the brooch. He stared at it, his heart beating rapidly. He grasped it and held it up, scrutinizing it beneath the light. It was just as he had remembered, exactly as he had pictured it through the years.

Until this moment, his debauchery had been cloaked in darkness, hidden in the confines of his memories. Now it glistened vividly before his eyes.

chapter 27

D
an Gifford shifted uneasily in
his seat. He was finding therapy increasingly difficult, considering Agent Schwartz’ demands for secrecy, as well as his own decision to keep Dr. Rosen out of the loop until something concrete developed. He had been sitting for over a half hour, updating Martin about the latest developments in his case against the Colombians, doing what the psychologist called “past-timing,” a therapy term for avoiding.

“Is something bothering you, Dan?” Martin said.

Gifford had anticipated the question. “Why do you ask that? I think I’m doing fine, really!”

“Well, for starters, you seem fidgety. Last week, you cancelled your appointment for the first time since we’ve been working together, and now we’re not talking about anything meaningful.”

Gifford hadn’t realized he was fidgeting. It irked him that he, a seasoned pro, could be such a giveaway. He had simply become so used to letting his guard down in this room that he was no longer able to reestablish it, even at will.

Suddenly, it occurred to Gifford that a part of him must have wanted to let Rosen know that something was wrong. He had been conflicted about keeping Rosen in the dark to begin with, reluctant to compromise what was probably the only pure, honest relationship he’d ever had. He understood that his time in this room was valueless unless he somehow resolved this.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said.

“Have you been feeling like drinking?” Martin figured he was probably off base, but it was the first question to ask nonetheless.

“I always feel like taking a drink, Doc. That’s nothing new.”

Martin understood that Gifford was still too early in his sobriety to lose the thirst. It embarrassed him to have needed the reminder. “So then, what exactly is it?”

“I’m just stressed over things.”

“Your separation?”

“That, and the job.”

“So, talking about the Colombians isn’t completely afield, I guess.”

“No. Not completely.”

Martin sensed the evasiveness, but the session was too close to the end to continue exploring. “I guess we’ll have to pick things up here next time.”

Gifford stood, dreading what he was about to say. “You know, Doc, I’ve been thinking…”

Martin looked at him curiously. Such words at the close of a session were usually the prelude to quitting therapy, a way for the patient to break free without any discussion. He would never have expected this from Gifford, though he had learned over the years not to be surprised by anything a patient did. Still, he found himself shocked, so much so that he could have sworn that Gifford was going to say something else completely.

“I feel like I need a break from this,” Gifford continued.

“Don’t you think this is something we should have talked about at the beginning of the session?” Martin tried to contain his disappointment.

Gifford was silent. He was angry with himself, despite his belief that he had no choice but to handle things this way. He couldn’t just keep coming here with a secret, and he couldn’t divulge his secret until he knew what it was all about. His paranoia, and Schwartz’ warning, had landed him in a pickle, and now he had to see it through. For his own mental health, if nothing else.

“Look, Doc, I’m sorry for not bringing it up sooner. It’s just that we’re getting closer to trial and I’m not going to have time for anything else for a while. I’ll be back, I promise, as soon as the trial’s over. Maybe sooner if things go okay.”

Martin heard the outer door open. His next appointment: Jacques Benoît, prompt as usual. Martin knew he should be used to this by now; patients left treatment abruptly all the time. It was rare, in fact, when treatment actually ended according to plan. Part of that was because many therapists never had a termination plan, and would keep their patients forever unless the patient made the break. The other part concerned the patients, who, because of their fear of chastisement as well as other issues around separation, frequently resorted to such tactics.

But Martin had always regarded himself as different, and found himself acutely disappointed that Dan Gifford didn’t seem to see that. He had even frequently joked with colleagues about the interminable nature of therapy, gibing them with a little-known passage he had once read in Jung’s book, “Psychology and Religion,” saying that therapy ends only “when the patient runs out of money.” That there was nothing he could say in the time remaining to influence Gifford was the most frustrating thing of all. “Why don’t you give me a call so we can discuss this further?” he said in an unusually clinical manner.

“Sure. Okay, I’ll call you.”

Martin believed Gifford was lying, and still he couldn’t do anything about it. Gifford held out his hand and the two men shook. Martin felt the sweat in Gifford’s palm and wanted to reach out and shake the man back to his senses. But, as always, another patient was waiting.

Later in the afternoon, Martin dialed for the third time that day the phone number for Jacob Lipton Associates. On his previous calls, he had asked for Cheryl and was immediately fed to her voice mail. He had chosen not to leave a message.

Once again, he got her voice mail, a simple outgoing message:
Hi, this is Cheryl Manning. I am either away from my desk or on another line. Please leave a message, and I will return your call shortly. If you’d like to speak with the receptionist, please press the star key
.

Martin held the receiver to his ear, looking out the window, wondering what to do, reluctant to respond.

Perhaps it was his insecurity, he reflected, the feeling that once he left a message he would relinquish control, giving her the opportunity to choose when to call back. But he knew it wasn’t that. On the contrary, he was fairly certain that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Clueless to the cause of his reticence, he forced himself to get past it. “Hi Cheryl, it’s Marty. Give me a call as soon as you get a chance. Bye.”

chapter 28

M
artha Benoît watched her husband
stare out the window. They had been riding in the back of the limo for close to half an hour and he had barely uttered a word. She looked at her watch; it was 7:18. The fundraiser for the American Red Cross was scheduled for 7:30 at the Hilton on Sixth Avenue, and they were just nearing the Queens entrance to the Midtown Tunnel. They would be more than fashionably late at this point, a position that normally would have Jacques on edge, especially because he was one of the honorees. But he seemed oblivious, his mind elsewhere.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Yes, everything is fine,” he responded, still gazing out the window.

“Do you see anything interesting?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning to her. “I was just thinking about something.”

She decided not to intrude, though this had become more difficult since the suicide attempt. She was now the constant worrier, the very sort of wife she’d always sworn she’d never be. She’d tried convincing herself that things were okay, that he was in good hands with Dr. Rosen, but at times like this, she wondered.

“Don’t worry, dear,” he said, putting his hand on her lap and a smile on his face. “We are going to have a splendid evening.”

She returned the smile, pretending to be mollified. It was the best she could do at the moment. But she knew something was wrong.

The sound of footsteps behind Dan Gifford would have caught his attention earlier, had he not been so preoccupied. He had just left his office and was walking in the garage to his car. The first thing he noticed was that the steps sounded like there were two people; the pace and heaviness suggested males. If they were simply two other night owls heading toward a car, they would likely be chatting, which they weren’t. Hence his conclusion that they were there for him.

He reached into his blazer, removed his Glock from its shoulder holster and held the gun against his chest, out of sight from his pursuers. He felt anxious. It had been years since he’d been in a position like this. He took a deep breath and told himself he was prepared. This was turning out to be one hell of a day.

There was a time when he had believed he was finished with guns, before his promotion to major crimes and his dealings with criminals from whom the law offered little protection. Now, carrying a weapon was as ordinary as wearing his wristwatch, and while it felt familiar in his hand, he hadn’t actually needed to use one since his days in Vietnam.

The garage was dimly lit, with a few security cameras. But it was late and he was sure that whoever was at the other end of those cameras was either sleeping, on a break, or doing something other than watching. As far as he could tell, there was no one else in the garage except for him and the men following him.

He turned a corner and quickly slipped out of sight behind a row of cars. The pace of his pursuers hastened. He slouched down, both hands on the 9 mm, trying to get a glimpse of them without being seen. No one. He figured they split up and would try to surround him.

He was as good as blind now, so he used his ears, catching some movement at five o’ clock about twenty feet away. Then, a muffled click, more familiar to his instincts than his consciousness. He hit the ground just as the window directly above him exploded and the car alarm started blasting. They had his position and were using silencers. Definitely professionals.

He quickly removed his shoes and fired off three rounds in the direction of the shot, setting off two more car alarms. He began maneuvering between the cars, staying low for cover. It wouldn’t be long before help would come; meanwhile, he just had to stay alive. The noise from the alarms made it impossible for him to track them without using his eyes. He lifted his head slightly, and pulled down just in time to miss another bullet.

He knew he was trapped, that these guys weren’t apt to leave empty-handed. He needed to retreat toward a wall or partition. With two of them out there, he definitely had to have his back against a wall. He began crawling when, suddenly, a voice called out.

“Mr. Gifford?”

He noted the characteristics of the voice – deep, raspy, accented, definitely Spanish, most likely Colombian – but he didn’t respond. He wasn’t about to give up his position.

“You do not have to answer us, we know you are there. We are not here to kill you. Otherwise, you’d be dead already. We only want to talk to you about Roberto Alvarez. We will let you live and even pay you a sizeable sum of money if you tell us where he is.”

So that’s what this was about; they were Colombians. He wasn’t surprised. He had known that it would only be a matter of time before Miguel Domingo made a move against Alvarez. He let his silence be his answer.

“If that is how you want it, Mr. Gifford, we are sorry we cannot let you live. We have to send a message to Roberto, I am sure your wife and son will understand.”

Gifford had to admit, these guys spooked him. And that’s exactly what they were trying to do, psych him into something stupid. Suddenly, he heard the sound of screeching tires, a car entering the garage one flight up. Could be cops, or reinforcements for the goons. Either way, he was staying put. Let them come to him. However this was going to end, he wasn’t going out alone.

More screeching as the car turned a corner. Red flashing lights. The good guys. Gifford felt pangs of relief, until all at once a barrage of car windows started shattering around him. Glass flew in every direction. The silencers letting loose.

He then heard standard gunfire, someone else in on the action. The silencers still firing, but no longer in his direction.

He crawled away from the wall, toward the end of the row of cars, stuck his head out from behind the rear wheel of a car and saw a brown Chevy with a flashing red bubble on the dash, blown out windows, abandoned. Bobby Marcus’ car.

What was Marcus doing here?

The gunfire subsided.

Was Marcus injured?

“Bobby?” Gifford yelled, no longer caring about revealing his position.

No response.

Gifford swallowed hard, thinking that Marcus was either down or reconnoitering.

“Your friend is dead, Mr. Gifford, but you still have a chance to get out of this alive,” the Spanish voice said.

“Fuck you!” Gifford yelled.

“Have it your way.”

Suddenly, loud gunfire rang out. Gifford looked again and saw Marcus crouched, moving between cars, approaching the goons, a gun in each hand. It was time for him to go on the offensive as well.

He eased out, under cover from Marcus’ shots, and began firing in the same direction. The two of them gave each other cover as they closed in on the Colombians. Luckily, no one hit a gas tank. Yet.

Gifford caught up with Marcus when, abruptly, his Glock emptied. They both ducked behind a car. Marcus handed Gifford his second piece and an extra magazine. The silencers began returning fire.

“Something’s going to blow up,” Gifford said nervously.

“Not a bad idea,” Marcus responded.

“Are you crazy? You’ll kill us all!”

“It’s better than letting them win, don’t you think?”

Gifford looked at him, expressionless.

“It’s your call,” Marcus said as he dropped out his empty magazine and slid in a new one. “You’re the boss.”

“Go for it.”

Marcus took the low, picking off two shots at the tank of the car shielding the goons. Gifford went from above, firing in the same direction. They heard sirens from afar, reinforcements on the way.

The silencers stopped. The Colombians were yelling, this time in Spanish.

“Speak Spanish?” Marcus asked.

“Not a word.”

“Me neither. Bet they can’t believe what we’re doing. Probably think we’re suicidal.”

“They’re right. They also know that our guys are coming. They’re running out of time. Now let’s see what they’re made of.” He raised his voice, and said, “Drop your guns and give it up, or we’re all going out together!”

He knew they wouldn’t comply; in their world, that would be suicide. But it was obvious that their plan had failed. Men like this were always used to easy targets, and never prepared for the unexpected. They were desperate; it was only a matter of seconds before they would do something stupid. He picked off another shot at the tank, just to raise the ante.

The Colombians emerged from their cover, firing their silencers, trying to make a break for it.

“Let’s get them,” Marcus said.

“Let them go! The blue and whites will get them.”

“Sorry, boss, can’t do that,” Marcus said as he darted in pursuit.

Gifford had no choice now, he couldn’t let Marcus go it alone. He followed behind, firing at the Colombians. The Colombians returned fire, but out in the open they were no match. Within seconds, they were down.

Marcus and Gifford walked over to the bodies. Marcus bent down and felt their pulses.

“Dead?” Gifford asked.

“As doornails.”

The two men looked at each other. Gifford didn’t know what to feel. Marcus had defied his directive but had also saved his life.

“What’s with the two guns?” Gifford asked. Carrying more than one gun was against departmental regulations.

“It always pays to be careful.”

“Ballistics will figure it out when they analyze all the shells.”

“Ballistics won’t be analyzing shit here. With your story, these creeps dead, and us alive, no one’s gonna spend the time or the money. This isn’t even gonna make the papers.” He looked back down at the bodies. “Assholes won’t be missed by anyone.”

Marcus had a point, Gifford reflected, however disturbing it may have been. The two of them walked away from the bodies toward Marcus’ car.

“What were you doing here anyway?” Gifford asked.

“I came by to update you on the Schwartz thing, was just pulling up in front of the building when I heard shots from the garage.” He reached into the glove compartment, took out a pack of cigarettes and held it out for Gifford.

“No thanks. Thought you quit?”

“I did. Always keep a pack around for emergencies though.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, as if for his last breath.

“It’s a good thing you were around,” Gifford said.

“I’ll say.”

“I wonder where security was.”

Marcus looked at him sardonically. “The square badge? Probably called the cops then sat and waited.”

“Probably.” Gifford looked back at the bodies. Regardless of who they were, he felt nauseated. It had been years since he’d killed anyone. “So, what’d you find out about Schwartz?” he asked, trying to collect himself.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Seems this Schwartz fellow works with a small team, no one talks, and he reports directly to the top.”

“The top?”

“Deputy director.”

“No leaks?”

“Not a one. Would you believe it? We oughta have this guy work for us.”

“You wouldn’t like him.”

“Probably not. I don’t like anybody.” He drew on his cigarette. “Let me ask you something. Why go worrying about this Schwartz character? You don’t got enough on your plate with this thing here?”

Gifford nodded.

“You got the biggest trial of your career in three weeks and a bunch of Colombian badasses after you. Who gives a shit about some Nazi thing on Long Island?”

“Point well taken,” Gifford said, though he knew it was contrary to his nature to give up like that. He was tired and didn’t want to justify himself to anyone right now.

They heard the sirens of police cars entering the garage above.

“Come,” said Marcus, placing his hand on Gifford’s shoulder, “let’s go meet the cavalry.”