by Ben Sanders
His voice was different for the final line – duller, heavier – as if he saw his actions as a symbol for larger failure.
Marshall said, ‘Do you remember anything else about him? Other than the smile? Hair, age?’
‘Dark hair, I think. And he could’ve been … well. Forties, I guess. A white man in his forties. But just this bright smile, almost like a clown. And … unpleasant, somehow.’ He shook his head, eyes on something in the distance. ‘He just gave me this sense, it was like he could feel bad luck or misfortune. You know. Just this … misplaced sense of glee about him, really. Almost devilish.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, things are coming back in bits and pieces as I think about it.’
‘No, not at all. That’s great. And what about the man with him?’
‘Yes, well that was the thing I’m trying to get clear. I don’t think … I’m not even sure now … I’m not even certain it was a man. I think maybe it was a woman.’
TWENTY
Marshall saw Jordan’s eyes cut across to him, but neither of them spoke. After a moment, Martin Boyne shook his head.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I wish I had something more to tell you. Like I say, the car was moving before I got to them.’ He shrugged. ‘It was just an impression, really, as they went by. And the guy with the smile, he was turning to look at me as they passed. He was driving, so he was on the side nearest to me, and all I can really picture …’ He shut his eyes, furrowed his brow. ‘All I can see is his face in the window.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t even see it now, but I remember … I remember thinking at the time, it looked like a woman beside him.’
No one answered. The wind chime on the front eave touched out a few careful notes. Marshall saw Jordan glance at him again: a silent query as to who would do the prompting.
Marshall said, ‘Can you remember what gave you that impression? What made you think it was a woman in the car?’
Silence in the room. Boyne was still looking out at the street, a gleam to his eyes from the window light. Or maybe something else: bright with memory, or a wish he could change things.
Marshall said, ‘There must have been something you noticed at the time.’
Silence again.
Ginny Boyne took her husband’s hand, shook it gently. The whole limb wobbled, as if boneless. ‘Try to remember, darling. It could be helpful.’
Marshall said, ‘Maybe hair? Body shape? Size?’
But Martin Boyne was shaking his head. He said, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember. It was weeks ago. It was a glimpse in the dark, weeks ago.’
He came away from the window and went back over to his workbench, started moving things around: nothing productive, just idle, awkward motion to get him through the moment.
He stopped and said, ‘It’s like when you wake up and you know you had a dream, but you can’t remember the dream. That’s what it’s like.’
No one answered.
Martin said, ‘I’m sorry, there’s just been too much on my mind. I can’t think about anything else.’
Marshall said, ‘It’s OK. We understand.’
Martin shook his head. He braced himself on the edge of the bench. ‘We had to move my landscape down here. It used to be upstairs, in the spare room, but it was too close to where she was. I couldn’t get anything done. I’d just stand there, thinking she used to be on the other side of the wall.’
He shook his head. All kinds of anguish and misery in that single gesture. A kind of dismal finality to it. He said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help you.’
They sat in the Tahoe to debrief. Marshall had the wind chime framed by chance in his side mirror. Oddly compelling to watch the subtle motion.
He said, ‘This changes things slightly. Lydia’s neighbor – Mrs Lopez – she had the impression there were two men in the house. The smiley guy told her they were nephews.’
‘Maybe he lied. She only ever met one of them.’
‘But why risk being caught out? They knew they’d have to leave Lydia’s place eventually, and there was a reasonable chance someone would see them, so why risk drawing instant suspicion? And a male–female pairing is more innocuous, anyway. If he said son-in-law and daughter, or nephew and wife, or whatever, it’s just slightly more common than two nephews. And common is good, as far as they’re concerned. Common means forgettable.’
Jordan said, ‘Maybe he just weighed it up and decided the odds were in his favor. Might’ve thought the best thing in the long run was to have people looking for two men, rather than a man and a woman. I can see the logic in that.’
Marshall didn’t answer.
Jordan said, ‘Does silence mean agreement?’
Marshall smiled. ‘I still think my theory’s better.’
Jordan didn’t answer.
Marshall said, ‘Does silence mean agreement?’
‘What’s your theory, then? Assuming Boyne was right, and he saw a woman in the car?’
‘Obviously the woman’s a third player. Maybe she hired them.’
Jordan thought about it. ‘You think she tagged along on surveillance a couple times, and then gave them the OK?’
‘Something like that. Tracked his car, followed him long enough to find out he owed money to the mob, maybe thought that would be a good cover for murder. Distract us from whatever else he was part of.’
‘If they were mob guys she hired, they’d know about the debt already.’
‘True. Even easier, then.’
‘So who is she?’
‘I don’t know. But I think we should ask D’Anton Lewis.’
They headed north, the Saturday morning traffic flowing well. As they went up through the western edge of Brooklyn Heights, the Expressway gave them a nice view west across the river to Manhattan. Nice if you liked gray, Marshall thought. Gray sky, gray water. Rooflines of the skyscrapers stepping up and down like some volatile graph, a histogram of commerce and aspiration spanning the length of the island.
The Google app on Jordan’s phone wanted him to take the Midtown Tunnel, but Marshall cut across early on the Brooklyn Bridge and then went up FDR Drive. They hit traffic at Midtown, but Marshall didn’t mind. He was wired for unilateralism, single-mindedness. There was something very pleasing in saying no to a suggestion. He’d decided on a route, and that was the way he went. They made it all the way up to Seventy-third and Marshall stopped before the corner with Park Avenue.
He said, ‘Do you mind driving?’
‘I’m not on the insurance.’
‘I meant, do you mind driving, and not crashing?’
‘Hilarious.’
‘If someone hits us, I’ll say I was at the wheel.’ He nodded up the street. ‘I don’t want D’Anton’s guys thinking I’ve got him under surveillance.’
He told her again what he wanted to do.
She thought about it.
She’d looked calm enough on the drive over, but now he saw uncertainty taking hold.
‘This is the guy who threatened to cut you from groin to neck.’
Marshall said, ‘He employed more confronting language.’
She looked out her window.
Marshall said, ‘You’re not being conscripted for anything. But if you want to talk to D’Anton, I think this is the best way of getting in the door.’
She didn’t answer.
Marshall said, ‘The freedom doesn’t have a timer on it, either. You can just drive away, if you want.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to do that.’
‘How’d you get a key to Vialoux’s office?’
She shrugged, innocent. Then she said, ‘All right. Jump out.’
Marshall climbed down and got into the rear seat behind the driver’s, hidden by the smoked glass. Jordan walked around the hood and slid in behind the wheel. She got her door closed, and an NYPD traffic cop pulled up alongside, shouted for her to move off the red curb.
‘Not off to a good start …’
She waved an apology and signaled to pull o
ut. The cop held back and left a gap for her, roof bar flashing, making a spectacle of the infringement. Jordan went straight across the intersection, staying westbound on Seventy-third, and the cop turned left onto Park, downtown.
Marshall slid across to the right-hand seat and tapped the window. ‘This is him coming up. The white place.’
He could see a doorman outside D’Anton’s, standing in the alcove. They’d stepped up security since his visit. He recognized the guy from yesterday.
Jordan said, ‘We’re just heading straight through?’
‘Yeah, keep going. I don’t think that guy will let us in, somehow …’
Jordan cruised past doing maybe twenty-five. D’Anton’s doorman had his back to the alcove wall, looking at something on his phone. There were no curb spaces big enough for the Tahoe, so Jordan looped the block. Fifth to Seventy-second, and then back around the corner off Madison. The parking situation was unchanged. The doorman was still on his phone.
Jordan said, ‘You think he’s on the same message?’
‘Yeah, possibly. Or maybe he’s writing a novel.’
‘Yeah … East Side Alcove. Shall I go around again?’
Marshall checked the time. Coming up on twelve midday. ‘Better wait. He might realize something’s up.’
She found a spot a block over, on Seventy-second Street. They waited there for twenty minutes, and then tried again for a third pass. The doorman was off his phone by now, but he didn’t seem to pay attention to them. Black SUVs were pretty ubiquitous in this part of town. A curb space had opened up near the corner with Fifth, and Jordan parallel-parked. It took her three tries to line it up and swing in.
Marshall said, ‘Smooth.’
‘Thanks. It’s like trying to park a container ship.’
She adjusted her mirror. ‘Would they post a security guy if the boss isn’t home?’
Marshall said, ‘Be the smart thing to do. Make people waste their break-in effort while he’s buying groceries.’
‘Is he the guy you put in an arm lock?’
‘No. But I doubt he’s a big fan of mine.’
They sat there in silence for a while, Marshall sideways on the bench for a view out the rear window. Midday turned into one o’clock. He watched her browsing through news items on her giant phone.
He said, ‘What’s Jack doing today?’
‘My son? Jake?’
He felt the quick, internal plunge of a social misstep. ‘Sorry. Jake.’
She smiled. ‘He ditched me for his rich friend. They have a place in Montauk. Jake got invited for the weekend. He said he needed a day off school yesterday, but funnily enough, he’s feeling great today.’
‘I bet he is. I wouldn’t mind a friend with a place in Montauk.’
‘D’Anton might have one.’
Marshall said, ‘Yeah, he probably does.’ He glanced back at the house. ‘If he’s under surveillance by NYPD, they’re hiding it well. There’s nothing on the street. No one’s driven past more than once, other than us. And I didn’t notice anything yesterday, either.’
‘They might be set up in an apartment.’
‘Maybe. They’d need a hell of an operations budget. This isn’t a cheap neighborhood.’ He put his face to the glass to see the windows above them. ‘Be a nice assignment though, wouldn’t it? Some plush apartment on the Upper East Side.’
‘Bringing back fond memories of being undercover.’
‘No. Not really.’
‘How long were you in?’
‘Two years. Give or take.’
‘And you’re …’
Marshall glanced at her.
She said, ‘You’re all right. Obviously.’
He smiled. ‘I guess so. Although there’s no point of comparison. There isn’t another version of me out there somewhere who never went undercover.’
True in a strict sense, atom-for-atom, but it wasn’t the whole story. There were people like him. Maybe in the absence of his experiences, he’d be more like Bruce Linney, the guy down the street from the Vialouxs. Infinite patience, no strange rules in his head he was compelled to obey, a peculiar affinity for T-shirts with dumb lettering. #DAD. But Marshall figured there was nothing minor in his history that could be edited for a more domestic outcome. He’d have to run the tape back twenty or twenty-five years and then lay down fresh material.
Jordan said, ‘I remember when I was still in training, they had a couple of guys who’d been undercover come and talk to us. I don’t know if they’d picked them to give a full-spectrum picture, or if it just worked out that way, but one guy seemed fine, the other guy had done it pretty hard. Said he was addicted to meth, didn’t really have contact with his friends or his family. Didn’t have many teeth, either, I seem to remember.’
Marshall said, ‘I’ve chipped a few, but everything’s basically intact.’
It came out sounding a little glib. But then he thought about it, and decided maybe it wasn’t bad, for an off-the-cuff remark. Basically intact. Fairly succinct and honest, on a couple of levels. He was somewhere on that continuum between the guy who was fine and the guy who definitely wasn’t.
Jordan said, ‘Funny that was his recollection. Boyne, I mean. He knew it was a woman in the car, but he couldn’t explain why he had that impression. Like you say, there must have been something, some detail, that he noticed at the time.’
‘Yeah. But it’s also like he put it. Sometimes you wake up after a dream, and all you can remember is that you had a dream. If someone put a gun to your head, you wouldn’t be able to give them any details.’
Jordan said, ‘If someone was quizzing me at gunpoint about a dream, I think I’d just make something up.’
‘Yeah, I guess I would, too, actually. You think we should have pushed him a bit harder? Boyne?’
She shook her head. ‘His wife had already talked to him about it. He must have tried to remember what happened before we got there, surely. So I imagine whatever memory he had of it is already recalled. Interesting though that he was quite hesitant. I wasn’t sure if he was just trying to reconstruct everything, or if maybe there was some detail he remembered, but he didn’t want to say. Almost as if he was thinking, No, that can’t be right.’
Marshall didn’t answer, thinking that one through for himself. Jordan’s eyes stayed on him for a moment, and then she went back to her phone browsing. It was two o’clock now.
She said, ‘What if he doesn’t show today?’
‘D’Anton? I’ll just keep coming back, I guess. Until he decides he needs to come outside.’
Another hour of inactivity. Rain resumed. Soft roof-patter, a slow dribble down the glass. Then at 3:20, a second man stepped out of D’Anton’s to join the first. The two of them took up position like they had yesterday, one man facing east and the other facing west, a two-man human corridor on the sidewalk outside the alcove. Then a flash of headlights as a black SUV turned in off Madison Avenue.
Marshall said, ‘All right. Go time.’
TWENTY-ONE
Jordan started the engine and swung the Tahoe into the traffic lane. Marshall was twisted in his seat, looking out the rear window. ‘Hold here a second. We’ll wait until he steps out.’
The SUV pulled up level with D’Anton’s front entrance.
It was the same Lincoln Navigator that Marshall had seen yesterday, and it was the same guy who got out of the front passenger seat and opened the rear door. For a long moment, he and the two sidewalk guards stood at parade rest, an almost photographic stillness. Then D’Anton Lewis emerged from the alcove. The overcoat was tan today, well fitted, brown brogues sharp at the toe and polished to a honeyed gleam. He raised an umbrella as he came down off the step and started across the sidewalk toward the waiting SUV.
Marshall said, ‘Now.’
Jordan put the Tahoe in reverse and hit the gas.
They took off backward, a jolt and a high-rev roar, and then a short half-block sprint, the front of D’Anton’s Lincoln zooming close
r in the rear window, and Jordan touched the brake and brought them to a soft halt with the Tahoe’s rear fender three feet from the other vehicle.
One-way street, cars parked on both sides. Nowhere for it to go, unless they planned to reverse all the way to Madison.
Marshall opened his door and climbed out.
D’Anton was at the rear of the Lincoln, umbrella still raised.
Marshall closed his door. ‘Sorry. Me again.’
The security team hadn’t moved yet, no doubt a little wary: wary of Marshall, wary of taking action that might provoke employer disapproval, especially after D’Anton’s feedback on their maneuver yesterday.
Marshall said, ‘Don’t tell me you forgot. We were talking about Ray Vialoux. And I think I gave one of your guys a sore shoulder …’
Progress: the man was moving now. He came over to where Marshall was standing by the rear of the Tahoe, hands in his pockets, exhaust misting past his knees. Marshall had to give it to him, he knew how to walk up to someone: calm, unhurried, face a little slack so the only thing on show was disapproval. That same gliding motion he’d used yesterday, like his whole world operated without friction. Even the umbrella contributed something, spired at its peak with gothic sharpness.
D’Anton said, ‘I thought we understood each other. I don’t want to talk, you want to keep your good health.’
‘Yeah, what was your line? Cock to throat, something like that?’
D’Anton didn’t answer.
Marshall said, ‘Stabbing me on the street probably isn’t worth it, right?’ He glanced around, looking up, taking in all those windows, all those potential witnesses. ‘And maybe I’m filming you from behind the tinted glass.’
D’Anton shrugged. ‘I have a long memory.’ He smiled, almost tender, making a fond promise to himself. ‘I’ll find another time, I’m sure.’