Replay

by Marc Levy

  “They’re anonymous.”

  “Nothing’s totally anonymous these days. We could find fingerprints.”

  “Mine, certainly, and the security agents.’”

  “Our forensics people are good at separating the wheat from the chaff. Have you kept the envelopes?”

  “I think so. Why?”

  “The postmark could give us a lead. Letters of this kind are usually written in anger, and anger makes you careless. Whoever wrote it could have simply dropped their letter in a mailbox near where they live. It’ll take a long time, but we’ll have to look for all the parents who adopted children from that orphanage, and find their addresses.”

  “That idea wouldn’t have occurred to me.”

  “You’re not a police officer. So—an office colleague, and three threatening letters. You said it was a long list. Who else is on it?”

  “I’m currently working on an equally sensitive investigation into the atrocities committed by various soldiers during the Argentine dictatorship.”

  “Are you investigating anyone in particular?”

  “The protagonist of my article is a former air force major who’s suspected of having participated in death flights. The courts have cleared him of all charges, but I’m using his story as the leitmotif of my piece.”

  “Have you met this guy?”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t able to get him to talk. I’m hoping to get a confession out of him on my forthcoming trip.”

  “If I believe these absurd claims of yours, you already made this trip in the past, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I thought you couldn’t change the course of events?”

  “That’s what I’d been telling myself, up until yesterday. But the fact that you’re here and that we’re having this conversation, which never happened in my previous life, makes me think I could be wrong.”

  Pilguez clinked the ice cubes in his glass.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Stilman. You’ve shown a certain flair for telling the future, but I’m not quite ready to swallow this story of yours hook, line and sinker. Why don’t we agree on a version that’ll be less of a problem for me.”

  “Like what?”

  “You think someone’s going to kill you, and as you’re obviously gifted with admirable powers of intuition, I’m willing to help you out. Let’s call it assistance to a person presumed to be in danger.”

  “If that makes things easier for you, sure. Coming back to our discussion, I don’t think this former air force major could have followed me here.”

  “He could have sent his men after you. Why did you choose him in particular to be the protagonist of your article?”

  “He’s the key figure in the background information my editor gave me. ‘If you want readers to be moved by the story of a people, it has to involve flesh and blood characters they can relate to. Otherwise, even the most in-depth story about the worst possible atrocities is only a succession of events and dates.’ That’s exactly what she told me. She had every reason to believe that describing this man’s career would be a good way to show how governments and populist fervor can turn ordinary people into monsters. It’s quite an interesting subject considering what’s going on in the world these days, don’t you think?”

  “Is your editor above all suspicion?”

  “Olivia? Absolutely. She’s got no reason to have a grudge against me. We get along very well.”

  “How well exactly?”

  “What are you insinuating?”

  “You’re getting married soon, aren’t you? Jealousy isn’t necessarily the preserve of your male colleagues, you know.”

  “There’s nothing ambiguous about our relationship.”

  “What about her? Is it possible she could have seen things differently?”

  Andrew thought about the inspector’s question.

  “No. I honestly don’t think so.”

  “Well, let’s rule out this Olivia . . . ”

  “Stern. Olivia Stern.”

  “With or without an ‘e’?”

  “Without.”

  Pilguez jotted down the name in his notebook anyway. “What about your fiancée?”

  “What about her?”

  “Look, Mr. Journalist, forty years as a cop taught me that once you’ve ruled out attacks by crazies, there are only two reasons people commit murder—money and love. I have three questions for you. Do you have any debts? Did you witness a murder?”

  “No to both. What’s the third question?”

  “Did you cheat on your wife?”

  * * *

  The inspector ordered another Scotch, and Andrew told him about an incident that might be connected to his own murder.

  Andrew had been so caught up in his work that he hadn’t had a chance to drive his old Datsun for months. He kept it in the lower basement level of a parking garage near the Marriott. It was probably covered in a thick shroud of dust by now. The battery must have gone flat; the tires too.

  He had a mechanic coming by at lunchtime to tow the car to Simon’s auto shop. He knew Simon would rake him over the coals for neglecting it so badly, as he did each time Andrew brought the car in to be repaired. He’d remind Andrew of all the time and energy his mechanics had put into restoring the Datsun, which he’d gone to such lengths to find to make him happy, then say that a slob like Andrew didn’t deserve to own a vintage car like this one. He’d keep the car in the garage for double the amount of time required to get it running again, like a schoolmaster confiscating a toy to punish a student, but he’d give Andrew back the Datsun running as good as new.

  Andrew left the office and crossed 8th Avenue. He greeted the attendant at the parking garage entrance, but the man was immersed in his newspaper and took no notice of him. As he went down the ramp, Andrew heard what sounded like the echo of his own footsteps behind him.

  A single neon light cast a feeble glow over the lower basement level. Andrew walked along the central aisle to parking space 37. It was the smallest car in there, sandwiched between two pillars. Opening the door and squeezing himself in took a degree of acrobatics, but he’d gotten a discount rate on this spot where few other drivers would have been willing to park.

  He ran a hand over the hood and realized the Datsun was even filthier than he’d expected. He gave the front tires a quick kick and was reassured: there seemed to be enough air in them for the car to be towed away safely. He hunted in his pocket for the keys; the tow truck would be here any minute. He skirted the pillar and, as he bent to slip the key in the door lock, felt a presence behind him. Before Andrew could spin round, a baseball bat struck his hip, making him double over. Instinc­tively, he turned to face his attacker. A second blow, to his stomach, knocked the breath out of him and he fell.

  Curled up on the ground, Andrew struggled to make out the figure now pressing the baseball bat into his chest to force him flat on his back.

  If it was the car he wanted, he could take it; he wouldn’t be able to start it, anyway. Andrew waved the keys, but the man kicked his hand and sent them flying.

  “Take my cash and let me go,” Andrew pleaded, pulling his wallet out of his coat pocket.

  With a terrifyingly precise swing of the bat, the wallet was knocked right to the far end of the garage.

  “Bastard!” the attacker shouted.

  Andrew thought the man was deranged. Either that, or he’d mistaken Andrew for someone else, in which case the faster he told him so the better.

  He managed to prop himself up against the door of his car.

  A swipe of the baseball bat smashed the window to smithereens. Another blow whistled past, skimming over Andrew’s head, and knocked off the side view mirror.

  “Stop!” Andrew cried out. “What the hell have I done to you?”

  “Now you ask that qu
estion, do you? What about me? What did I ever do to you?”

  So he was deranged, Andrew concluded, petrified.

  “The time’s come to make you pay,” the man said, lifting his bat.

  “I beg you,” Andrew whimpered. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know you. I assure you you’re making a mistake.”

  “I know exactly who I’m dealing with. A bastard who’s only interested in his miserable career. A sonofabitch with no consideration for others. A scumbag,” the man screamed, sounding even more threatening.

  Andrew discreetly slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and found his cell phone. He groped with his fingertips for the buttons to dial 911 before realizing that there was no way his phone would get a signal here this far below ground.

  “I’m going to smash your hands. I’m going to make sure you don’t hurt anyone ever again.”

  Andrew could feel his heart pounding. This nutcase was going to kill him. He had to try something, but the adrenaline rushing through his veins was sending his heartbeat crazy. His whole body was trembling; he wasn’t even sure he could stand.

  “Not so cocky now, are you?”

  “Put yourself in my place,” Andrew replied.

  “Funny you have the gall to say that! That’s just it—I wish you had put yourself in my place. If you had, we wouldn’t be here right now,” the man sighed, pressing the baseball bat against Andrew’s forehead.

  Andrew watched as the bat was lifted above his head and smashed down on the roof of the Datsun, which caved in under the impact.

  “How much did you get paid for it? Two thousand dollars? Five thousand? Ten thousand?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, sure. Play innocent! Don’t tell me: it’s not about the money; you work for the prestige of it. After all, you’ve got the greatest job in the world, haven’t you?” the man continued, sounding disgusted.

  They heard the sound of an engine and the squeal of a clutch, and saw two beams of light suddenly pierce the darkness.

  The attacker wavered. Sheer desperation gave Andrew the strength to get to his feet, throw himself at the man and clutch at his throat. The man freed himself easily, threw Andrew an uppercut punch and fled toward the ramp, brushing past the tow truck that was now lighting Andrew up in the glare of its headlights.

  The mechanic got down from his vehicle and hurried over to Andrew.

  “What happened?”

  “I’ve been beaten up,” Andrew said, rubbing his face.

  “Looks like I got here just in time!”

  “Ten minutes earlier would’ve been even better, but thanks—it could’ve gotten much worse.”

  “I wish I could say as much for your car. He’s really bashed it up. Still, better the car than you.”

  “Yes, though I can think of someone who might take a different view,” Andrew sighed, looking at his Datsun.

  “Well, at least I’m not wasting my time. Have you got the keys?” the man asked.

  “They’re on the ground somewhere,” Andrew said, feeling around for them.

  “Sure you don’t want me to drive you to the emergency room?”

  “No, thanks. Nothing damaged, except for my self-esteem.”

  By the light of the tow truck’s headlights, Andrew spotted his car keys near a pillar and his wallet lying not far from a Cadillac. He gave the mechanic the keys and told him he wouldn’t accompany him to Simon’s auto shop after all. He scribbled the address on the towing receipt and handed it to the man.

  “What do I tell the man at the auto shop?”

  “Tell him I’m fine, and that I’ll call him this evening.”

  “Hop in. I’ll drive you out of here, just in case that loony’s still hanging around. You should go see the cops.”

  “I’d be incapable of describing my attacker. The only thing I can tell them is that he was at least a head shorter than me, and I don’t really feel like boasting about that.”

  Andrew got out of the tow truck on 40th Street and walked back to the office. The pain in his hip was fading, but his jaw felt like it had been set in concrete. He had no idea who his assailant was, but he doubted the man had laid into him by mistake.

  * * *

  “When did this attack happen?” Pilguez asked.

  “During the Christmas holidays, between Christmas and New Year’s Day, when I was on my own in New York.”

  “Sounds like he’s handy with a bat. I wouldn’t be surprised if the writer of one of those anonymous letters you got used more than a pen to let you know he wasn’t happy. And you can’t tell me what he looked like?”

  “It was very dark in that garage,” Andrew said, lowering his eyes.

  Pilguez put a hand on Andrew’s shoulder.

  “Have I told you how many years I worked for the police before I retired? Nearly forty. A hell of a long time, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “How many suspects do you think I interrogated in the course of that forty-year career?”

  “Is it important for me to know?”

  “Even I don’t remember how many, to be completely honest. What I can tell you is this: I may be retired, but I can still see when someone’s hiding something. When somebody’s bullshitting you, there’s always some little detail that’s a dead giveaway.”

  “What kind of detail?”

  “Body language never lies. A frown, a guilty blush, pursed lips, avoiding eye contact—like you’re doing right now. Checking your shoes are well polished, are you?”

  Andrew looked up.

  “It wasn’t my wallet I picked up in the parking garage, it was my attacker’s. He must have dropped it when he fled.”

  “And why were you hiding that from me?”

  “I’m ashamed I got beat up by a guy who’s shorter than me. And I found out from the content of his wallet he’s a professor.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “He’s not your average thug. That man didn’t attack me for the heck of it—an article of mine must have caused him trouble.”

  “Have you still got his ID card?”

  “It’s in my desk drawer at the office.”

  “Then let’s take a little walk to your office; it’s only a block away.”

  11.

  Pilguez came by to pick up Andrew at 6:30 A.M. the next morning. If they wanted to catch Frank Capetta, a professor of theology at New York University, the best thing to do was wait for him outside his building before he left for work.

  The taxi dropped them off at 101st Street and Amsterdam Avenue, in front of a row of rent-controlled apartment buildings owned by the city. Number 826 was a twenty-story building overlooking a basketball court and a small fenced-in park where the neighborhood kids played. Pilguez and Andrew settled down on a bench facing the entrance to wait.

  He wore a trench coat and clutched a briefcase under his arm, hunched over as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Andrew immediately recognized the man whose driver’s license he’d stared at time and again, wondering what he could have done to send him into such a fury.

  Pilguez shot Andrew a look. Andrew nodded to confirm that this was their man.

  They got up, quickened their pace and caught up with Capetta before he could reach the bus stop. The professor blanched when Andrew stepped in front of him.

  “How about a coffee before you go to work?” Pilguez asked, his tone brooking no argument.

  “I’ll be late for class,” Capetta snapped, “and I’ve no desire to have coffee with this man. Let me past, or I’ll call for help. The police station’s just down the block.”

  “What’ll you tell the cops?” Pilguez asked. “That you beat up this gentleman with a baseball bat and smashed his vintage car for a little holiday fun last Christmas?”<
br />
  “And he’s a coward to boot!” Capetta spat, giving Andrew a scornful look. “Brought your heavy along to take revenge, have you?”

  “Thanks for the compliment,” said Pilguez. “At least you’re not denying you did it. I’m not a bodyguard, just a friend. Considering the way you acted the last time the two of you met, you can’t blame him for wanting some backup.”

  “I’m not here to get even with you, Mr. Capetta,” Andrew broke in.

  “How did you find me?”

  Andrew held out the wallet, and Capetta took it. “Why’d you wait so long?” he asked.

  “Why don’t we get that coffee?” Pilguez asked, tapping his foot on the sidewalk.

  They went into the Café Roma nearby and got a table at the back of the room.

  “What do you want?” Capetta asked.

  “A double shot of espresso,” Pilguez replied.

  “To understand why you attacked me,” Andrew said.

  Pilguez took his pen and notebook out of his pocket and slid them over the table to Capetta.

  “While I go place my order, I’d be obliged if you could write down the following: One veal roast, four pounds of potatoes, oregano, two red onions, one pint of half-and-half, one packet of mustard seed, two packets of grated Swiss cheese, one bunch of asparagus. Oh, and a cheesecake.”

  “Why would I write down all that?” Capetta asked.

  “Because I’m asking nicely,” Pilguez said, getting up.

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  “You don’t want your administrator at NYU to find out what a member of his teaching body got up to over the Christmas holidays, do you? Okay, start writing! I’ll be back in a second. Want something? Cup of tea?”

  Andrew and Capetta exchanged an astonished glance. Capetta bent to his task. As he was writing down the words Pilguez had dictated, Andrew asked him the question he’d been dying to know the answer to.

  “So what did I do to you, Mr. Capetta?”

  “Are you pretending you don’t know, or are you stupid?”

  “A bit of both, I guess.”