by Ben Sanders
Jordan said, ‘They.’
‘Same guys who got him at the restaurant. Timeline seems pretty clear. Fire occurred at ten or eleven o’clock, Thursday night. They obviously shot him and then came up here to his office.’
‘Could’ve been theatrics. The arson, I mean.’
Marshall shook his head. ‘Hired guys wouldn’t do that. They don’t pull the trigger and then hang around for extras. They were at his house before they killed him. The guy could’ve thrown a Molotov through the window, instead of just standing there, waving. And they could’ve done that here, too. Molotov, I mean. But they didn’t. They went inside. They were looking for something specific, they knew he had it, and they found it.’
‘So then why the fire at all? If they’d found what they needed, the arson was pointless. Other than as some kind of final insult that he was never going to experience anyway because he was already dead.’
Marshall said, ‘What do people keep in file cabinets?’
‘Well. Files, obviously. Paper.’
‘Right. So they were looking for a physical document. And it’s impossible to tell now what he had, and what he didn’t have, and what might’ve been taken.’
Jordan had some chai latte. ‘You said the timeline’s clear.’
‘Pretty clear.’
She said, ‘But it’s not logical, is it? If, like you say, they were hired to do a job. I mean, they were sophisticated enough to track his car, know his movements, but then when it came down to it, the best they could do was shoot him through the window of a restaurant, and then come up here and light a fire. Two birds, one stone would’ve been easier. Wait until he was in his office, kill him, take whatever they needed. Seems pretty obvious.’
‘So what’s your theory then?’
‘I don’t think these guys are hired. I think they’re part of it. I think they’re vicious enough, they thought they could fix the problem themselves, but they’re too involved to do it properly. They’ve got something at stake, and it’s making them reactive and impulsive rather than dispassionate.’
That made sense. He thought of D’Anton on the street in the rain yesterday, showing him the dagger he carried.
Reactive and impulsive rather than dispassionate.
He thought the man’s behavior might fit that assessment.
She said, ‘Do you agree?’
‘Yeah. I think so …’ Then he said, ‘Full disclosure, I’m probably not the safest guy to hang around with.’
He told her about yesterday, meeting D’Anton and being warned off by Loretta Flynn from NYPD. The guys in the bagel shop down in Brighton Beach, and his game of Russian Roulette with Frank Cifaretti.
She absorbed it all in with the same patient and unperturbed expression she’d worn yesterday, when he told her about Vialoux. She sipped her chai latte and waited for him to finish, and then she said, ‘I don’t imagine he’ll forget about that any time soon, will he?’
Marshall said, ‘Depends when he sees a dentist. As long as he can stick his tongue in a gap, he’ll want to get even.’
‘D’Anton Lewis obviously knows something. Else why go straight to death threats when you asked him about it.’
‘Yeah. And people of spotless innocence don’t tend to be under active surveillance by NYPD. They think he killed a woman he was having affair with, in 2017.’
‘Really?’
He told her about the woman recovered from the Hudson, the photo of the hand Loretta Flynn had showed him. The imagery brought a silence for a long moment.
Then Jordan said, ‘It doesn’t exactly surprise me. Maybe Vialoux did a job for him, and it pissed off the mob enough that this Langello guy had him killed – gambling debt or no.’
Marshall said, ‘I liked that theory, too.’
‘Liked.’
‘Except I saw Vialoux the night he died. He seemed to think his only existential risk was a gambling debt.’
He watched her think about it.
She said, ‘Maybe he thought he could get away with not telling you. Or maybe he thought he couldn’t afford to.’
‘What do you mean?’
She shrugged. ‘If he respected you enough to ask for help, maybe he didn’t want to own up to whatever he was doing.’
‘I think my potential impression of him was the least of his worries.’
Jordan shook her head. ‘You don’t know that. You don’t know what he was into. He might have thought that if he could just live another day, he could fix his problems and keep his reputation intact, too.’
Marshall didn’t know where to take things after that. He sat drinking his coffee, imagination doing dark work, giving him that line from D’Anton:
Open you up, cock to throat …
He said, ‘Did we cover the fact there’re some mob guys after me?’
‘Yeah. Anyone tries to shoot you, I reserve the right to reassess my proximity.’
‘I was being serious.’
She shrugged. ‘You don’t have to walk me through it. If you want some gallantry points, you can go and lock yourself up at home, rule out collateral. But I’m happy to take the risk, if it means finding out what happened to Ray. But don’t think I’m going to dive in front of a bullet for you.’
Marshall said, ‘I’m pleased we cleared that up.’
Jordan didn’t answer.
He said, ‘What were you going to do if she asked for the key?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Our friend from the jewelry store. You told her you had a key to Vialoux’s office.’
She said, ‘I do have a key.’
Maybe his surprise was somehow evident: she said, ‘I worked with him.’
He almost said, Briefly. But he didn’t. He let the topic die, verbally at least, mutual agreement in their shared look. Something there that maybe he’d come back to, but for now he just said, ‘I’m going to talk to a witness who saw the smiley man, and then I’m going to see D’Anton again.’
‘Is that a statement, or an invitation?’
Marshall said, ‘The invitation was implicit in the statement.’
She smiled. ‘Who’s the witness?’
He told her about the Boynes, Vialoux looking into their daughter’s suicide. ‘Apparently Ray was around there one night, they saw a nice little man with a smile, sitting in a car, watching.’
They were by the window, and the image was too suggestive for her not to look: he watched her scan the street, checking faces, checking vehicles. He almost told her he was happy to do all this alone, but he figured there was probably an injunction against that kind of reminder, covered when she told him not to walk her through it. In any case, she’d been a cop. She knew the risk of this kind of thing, these kinds of people. Also, Marshall thought, he really liked her company.
He said, ‘And I need a car, too. Something big.’
NINETEEN
Jordan had one of those oversized smartphones with a screen the size of a paperback book. She searched for rental companies, and the Google app showed half a dozen in Park Slope alone. They walked over to a place on Third Avenue, and Marshall asked the guy at the counter for the biggest car available. The ensuing wince conveyed so much bad luck and apology, it seemed for a moment as if catastrophe had befallen the entire fleet. Marshall waited, and the guy shook his head a couple times, and then explained that their last Dodge Grand Caravan had been driven off the lot only two minutes ago. The wince deepened, gaining crinkles, and the guy said that sometimes that’s just how it goes. They still had a Chevy Tahoe, though, if that would do?
Marshall said that would be fine.
He showed his driver license, and paid with his Visa. He was averse to both practices – he preferred anonymity and cash – but he was cognizant that total stealth was unattainable, especially in this era: everything archived, computer power imbuing history with more and more detail, finer and finer resolution. At some point, Marshall thought, reality and knowledge would converge, and everything that ever happened wou
ld be a fact on a hard disk, sequenced to ones and zeros. Data – records – were the new religion, but he figured that even for a non-believer, a one-off visit to the church wouldn’t kill him.
He drove out onto Third Avenue, Jordan up front beside him, and he told her his plan for the car.
She said, ‘You should’ve paid extra, got the collision-damage waiver.’
He said, ‘I think we’ll be OK.’
‘You think.’
‘I’m not making you come with me.’
She seemed to consider that, the big SUV cruising along with a smoothness that made Marshall feel distant from the outside world. It was a nice car: gleaming black paint, chrome rims, smoked rear windows in case he wanted to give a ride to someone famous.
She said, ‘Let’s talk to the witness first.’
The mother – Ginny – had given him the address on the phone yesterday. Their place was in Sunset Park, a slightly tired brownstone a few blocks south of the Vialouxs. Marshall had to loop past three times before he found a curb space long enough for the Tahoe. A wind chime was hanging from the Boynes’ eave, and it tinkled as they went up the steps, as if announcing their arrival. Or as if to say: go easy. Everything here is delicate.
Jordan pressed the bell, and it chimed faintly within the house, discordant with the wind-chime melody still picking out its careful notes.
Ginny Boyne answered the door. She matched the impression Marshall had formed yesterday, hearing her on the phone: someone who’d been through a lot, but hadn’t lost sight of the way forward. She was shortish and petite, mid-fifties, a little stooped, but with a strength in her face – the slight squint making her seem focused, mouth firmly set but with a faint upward curl, like she still saw the light and humor in the world.
She said, ‘You’re the man from yesterday.’
He smiled. ‘I’m the man from yesterday.’
They did the handshakes and hellos. Jordan introduced herself as a friend of Ray Vialoux’s.
‘Come in, come in. Don’t worry about shoes. We’re a shoes-on house.’
They followed her into the entry hall. The door to the living room was closed, and Ginny opened it slightly and peeped in.
‘Is he there … yes. There he is. Come through …’
They followed. The chairs had been moved against the walls, making space for a large table standing on a spread of newspapers. Draped on the table was a paint-daubed bedsheet, and on top of that was a wooden board – perhaps three feet by four – constructed on which was a miniature artificial landscape. Through its center was a blue swathe of painted river, nicely textured with random strips of white papier-mâché – signs of chop and velocity, Marshall presumed. The adjoining terrain on both sides had been formed from what he thought was paper over chicken wire. A rugged landscape, well rendered. Sand and rocks down at the water’s edge, larger pebbles that gave a sort of boulder-strewn effect to the lower slopes of the hills. One hill was gouged deeply through its side to form a sheltered valley, the coloring greener and more verdant, lots of cotton-wool shrubs and trees formed from little stubs of twig, topped with moss. All very impressive.
Standing on the far side of the table was a man in his mid-sixties. Ginny-like in his slenderness and hunched stance, but he was taller – Marshall’s height, and maybe Marshall’s build, once upon a time. He looked startled for a second as they entered, interrupting his quiet hobby. Then he smiled, polite and expectant, chin forward to see above spectacles sitting low on his nose, the whole visage grandfatherly and patient. He held a little plastic figurine in one hand, a fine-tipped paintbrush in the other.
‘Mart, this is Jordan and Marshall. Friends of Ray Vialoux.’
‘Oh, sure, hi. Sorry, let me put this down.’
He turned and placed the figurine and the paintbrush on a workbench against the wall behind him, turned back and shook hands with them, Jordan and then Marshall.
Ginny said, ‘Starting to come together, isn’t it?’
Marshall said, ‘It’s incredible. Must have taken you months.’
‘Yes … I think the landscape’s finalized. It’s just a question of how I position everyone. The permutations can get a little overwhelming.’
He glanced behind him at the workbench. The surface was cluttered with dozens of plastic figurines, inch-high soldiers with strange armor and exotic weapons. Everything carefully painted, bright and precise down to the microdetail. Artillery, too: tanks and grenade launchers and gun emplacements, all showing signs of brutal and prolonged conflict.
Martin said, ‘Hard to keep a steady hand during the paintwork, especially with so much infantry. That’s where the really challenging stuff is. I’d actually intended quite a formal livery style, but it was just too difficult to sustain with any accuracy. But then the other day, I happened to be reading about the Bay of Pigs, and it just got me thinking maybe a guerilla theme would work better. There’s a sort of requisite sloppiness to the look. So the challenge now of course is I have to go back through and make sure no one’s too tidy.’
Maybe this is what it took. Maybe to distract from catastrophe, you had to dive into detail of another kind, absorb yourself with a project and all its attendant decisions. Marshall wondered how often the guy could glide through a blissful stretch of not thinking about it, not thinking about the fact his daughter was dead, or if it just always there, a dark basecoat to everything he considered. He noticed now that there was nothing on the walls: nothing except the occasional brass picture hanger, or a lonely nail.
Ginny said, ‘They wanted to ask you about the man you saw. The night Ray was here.’
‘Oh of course, that’s right.’
He came around the table, stood at the front window with his hands on his hips. He glanced between Marshall and Jordan and said, ‘Do you think the man I saw …’ He swallowed, licked his lips, looked out the window again. ‘Did he have something to do with it?’
Marshall didn’t want to give him a straight yes, risk making him think he could’ve done more.
He said, ‘We’re not sure. But he’ll be worth talking to, if we can find him.’
Martin nodded, looked at Ginny now. ‘So when was it? Six weeks ago, maybe, something like that?’
‘I think we worked out it was six weeks. The week after … well. It was the week after we lost her, wasn’t it?’
Martin Boyne took a moment sucking on a front tooth. He bulged his eyes and then blinked carefully. He said, ‘We had an idea Jennifer had been bullied, and that was why … Anyway. We wanted to make sure. Ray came and collected her computer. In case there was a … we thought there might be a message, or some kind of explanation.’
Jordan said, ‘Did he find anything helpful?’
‘No, in the end, he didn’t. Nothing on the computer, apparently. It’s all just … yes. Anyway.’
Ginny Boyne said, ‘And Ray’s daughter – Ella – she knew her, of course. She’s known her since school, since they were this high. She even – she took the time to call me up and say how sorry she was, and that … well.’ She stood beside her husband at the window. ‘She was very certain no one had been giving Jen any trouble. So maybe it was just one of these awful things that happen. But sorry, I’m interrupting …’
The pair of them stood silently for a moment, unified in memory, and then Martin said, ‘Yes … I was actually waiting for Ray in here – in fact right here by the window. I think … I guess, as you do, I’d been going around and around with things in my head all day, and I was just looking forward to talking to someone, really.’ He ran a hand through his hair, looked behind him at the model terrain on the table before he turned back to the window. ‘I saw Ray park and head over, and I just happened to see another car pull in to the curb over there …’ He pointed on a diagonal, through the window. ‘I guess because it was late and I saw the headlights, it made me notice. And then the fact that nobody got out. It was just parked there.’
Marshall said, ‘What sort of car was it?’
/> ‘Oh …’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t even tell you.’ He shrugged. ‘It was just a car. Nothing about it really stood out. It was just the fact it seemed to show up at the same time as Ray did.’
Ginny Boyne said, ‘Sorry, I should have offered – can I get anyone a drink?’
Jordan gave her a smile. ‘No, not at all. I’m fine.’
Marshall said, ‘Thank you, we’ve just had coffee. Don’t worry.’
‘We’d offer you a seat, but it’s more like a hobby room than a living room, right now.’
Marshall said, ‘It’s absolutely fine, don’t worry.’ Then to Martin, ‘Did you get a closer look at who was in the car? Ginny mentioned on the phone, you saw Ray out when he left, and the car was still there?’
Martin Boyne nodded. ‘I saw him to the door. He had Jen’s computer with him, and I think … as I say, it had been on my mind all day, and I could see from the top step when I went outside, the car was still there. And it wasn’t … it wasn’t something I’d ordinarily do, but things happen, and they rewire you, I think …’
He ran his hand through his hair again, as if embarrassed at the insight. Then pointing again, he said, ‘Ray had left his car over that way, to the left, and the guys watching, they were over to the right more. I don’t think … I’m not sure I even said anything to Ray. He went toward his car, and I went toward their car and …’ He shrugged. ‘That was it, basically.’
‘Did you speak to them?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what I thought I was going to do. I was really just heading over there without thinking, pushed along by all this frustration from other things. I’m not sure what I was going to do. Ask them why they were there, I guess. But I never had to make a decision. They obviously saw me coming, and they started up and drove off. Came right past, which is how I saw. The man in the driver’s seat, he turned to look at me as they came past, and yeah … I guess as Ginny said, he just had this smile on his face. You know. Daring me to do something. But, well. I didn’t, of course. I just stood there, and then I went back inside.’