Sometimes at Night

by Ben Sanders

  ‘Six, all up.’

  ‘I’m flattered you thought I’d be such a handful.’

  ‘We had some last-minute add-ons. Inspector Flynn is here with some people.’

  On cue: footsteps from the kitchen, and then a voice said, ‘Nice to see you again.’

  He turned from the desk as Loretta Flynn entered the room.

  Marshall said, ‘Is this petty retaliation, NYPD-style?’

  ‘No. This is work, NYPD-style.’

  ‘I think that’s a stretch.’

  ‘Why? Have you not heard of search warrants?’

  ‘I have. But this is just a shakedown to keep me away from your man D’Anton.’

  Flynn just smiled.

  Nevins said, ‘Where were you on Sunday night?’

  ‘Upstairs. Sleeping cozily in my bed.’

  ‘You haven’t been out to New Jersey, by any chance?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Frank Cifaretti and some of his people were found dead yesterday.’

  ‘How did you hear that?’

  ‘Organized crime unit at the FBI notified us. Given he’s a person of interest in the Vialoux case.’

  Marshall nodded. They looked at him.

  Nevins said, ‘No comment?’

  Marshall said, ‘My thoughts and prayers are with the organized crime community at this difficult time.’

  Nevins said, ‘One of the people with him was identified as Marco Perrin. We think he might’ve been the man hired to hit Vialoux.’

  ‘Little Marco. The smiley man.’

  ‘So you haven’t been out to Jersey?’

  Marshall said, ‘This all sounds like a serious criminal matter.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So I’d prefer not to comment.’

  ‘It’s a simple question.’

  Marshall shrugged. ‘And you’ve heard what I have to say.’

  Silence.

  Then Flynn said, ‘We found your safe, obviously. Do you want to tell me the code, or do we need to bring in a gas axe?’

  He smiled. She wanted the stolen cash, from his undercover work. Severance pay, as he liked to think of it. The few hundred grand he’d taken from Tony Asaro, after his shootout that ended the whole thing. Money that might keep him alive in years to come. They didn’t have the probable cause to search for that alone. If they did, he’d have been searched already, years ago. Easier to piggyback on this thing.

  She said, ‘Something funny?’

  Marshall said, ‘No. I’m just wondering if you really want me to open it.’

  ‘If it’s that complicated, I can give you the options again.’

  He stood up from the desk and slid his chair in, turned to face her. Maybe five feet between them. She hadn’t moved, but the two uniforms had their hands on their guns now, thumbs hooked on the grip in that faux-idle cop fashion, like that’s just how they happened to be standing.

  Marshall said, ‘Maybe you could all give me a moment to talk to the inspector.’

  Flynn nodded, looking at him. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. Give us a moment.’

  The two uniformed cops passed between them as they went outside. Nevins waited a second, and then he shrugged, and went out after them.

  Flynn waited for the door to close, and said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘I thought you’re too senior to be out serving warrants.’

  ‘Oh, you know. Nice to get out from behind the desk every now and then.’

  Marshall said, ‘You’re not investigating D’Anton. Are you? You told me you were warned I’d try to make contact. But I waited outside his house the other day for an hour before I saw him, and no one tried to intervene. Because no one knew I was there. There’s no surveillance.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘I went back two days ago to confirm, and again no one stopped me. Which I thought was interesting, given that I was supposed to stay away from him. Or did I misinterpret you?’

  Loretta Flynn didn’t answer.

  Marshall said, ‘So I figured the reason you showed up when you did was because he called you. So do you have him logged as a confidential informant, or is it a more casual arrangement? I would hope not. It would be quite inappropriate.’

  She smiled.

  Marshall said, ‘What’s he got on you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Is that it? Is that all you wanted to say?’

  ‘I can say it again, to different people, if I have to. But if you leave right now, I’m happy to err on the side of reticence. By which I mean I won’t tell anyone you obstructed a murder investigation in order to do a favor to a drug-trafficker.’

  Loretta Flynn nodded slowly, like she was taking care to process his statement. She said, ‘Why don’t we go upstairs, and you can open your little safe?’

  ‘Why don’t I tell you the code, and you can do it yourself?’

  He recited the combination.

  ‘There’s a gun in there, but don’t freak out. If you dig around through all the stolen money, there should be a permit, too.’

  She told him she’d seen guns before, and she was pretty sure she’d be able to keep it together.

  She turned and went upstairs, and Marshall opened the front door. Nevins and the two uniformed cops were standing on the sidewalk.

  Marshall said, ‘You want coffee?’

  Nevins looked at him levelly and then nodded, holding eye-contact. ‘Yeah. Let’s have some coffee.’

  He came back inside and followed Marshall to the kitchen, watched him prepare the little Bialetti percolator.

  ‘You worried I’m going to make trouble?’

  Nevins folded his arms, leaned his hip on the edge of the counter. ‘I’m skeptical about your harmlessness, put it that way.’

  ‘All I can do right now is brew your coffee too strong.’ He set the percolator on a stove element and lit the flame. ‘You haven’t asked me much about this evidence I allegedly stole. I’m starting to think you’re just playing tag-along with Loretta, hope I’ll be intimidated.’

  Nevins was peering at him, leaning in a little. ‘Is that makeup? What did you do to your face?’

  ‘I slipped.’

  ‘You slipped.’

  Marshall shrugged. ‘It’s wet, it happens. You talked to D’Anton Lewis yet? Or is Flynn still keeping him off-limits?’

  Nevins didn’t answer that. They stood for a few seconds listening to the percolator heating up. Low rumble like a far-off jet inbound.

  Nevins said, ‘Maybe it hasn’t occurred to you, but a bit of preemptive honesty will serve you better than waiting to be arrested.’

  ‘What, for the dead gangsters in New Jersey? Thanks for the advice.’

  ‘You think they won’t find you?’

  ‘No, they’ll definitely find me. Because you’ll definitely tell them I visited Cifaretti the other night at the bagel place. But there’s a difference between finding someone, and finding evidence that they’re guilty.’

  He stood there and let Nevins look at him as he in turn looked at the percolator. The rumble building, as if from the heat of relayed attention: Nevins to Marshall to the water in the stainless vessel.

  ‘So you won’t say you didn’t do it.’

  Marshall said, ‘I don’t have to. It’s called burden of proof, not burden of denial.’

  The percolator reached temperature. Marshall removed it from the element and took two mugs from a cupboard and placed them on the counter. Not a move he was accustomed to. A one-cup pour was his standard. The challenge with this was he didn’t have anything to validate the spacing. If he’d had tilework he could’ve used the grout lines as a reference. Nothing here, though. This was a by-inspection job. He got the handles pointing in the same direction, and then imposed what looked to be a two-diameter mug-separation, centerline to centerline. He poured coffee in each, generous allocations of two-thirds capacity, and then worked back and forth with little thimblefuls to finish things off with precision.

  ‘You want cream
or sugar or anything?’

  Nevins shook his head. He picked up a mug. ‘If you’d kept me in the loop, we could’ve found him, and he’d still be alive, and he could’ve told us exactly what happened.’

  ‘Who, Little Marco? You think he’d be that helpful, do you?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. But what good is your solution? Kill them all. Terrific. Maybe in your mind that’s some kind of useful resolution. Personally, I don’t …’ He looked away. ‘I don’t see how there’s any sort of moral or intelligent dimension to it.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know … I’m not even sure you realize the story’s not about you.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus. Give me a break.’

  ‘No, fuck you. It’s nothing to do with you. You put yourself in the middle, but it’s not about you at all: it’s about the guy who died, and his family. Vialoux and his family. And Lydia across the road, and the people who knew her. Her family. They all had a right to know what happened. And now whatever they find out will always be a few details short, because you went ahead and did what suited you.’ Pointing at him now, slightly flushed.

  Marshall said, ‘But the story is about me, isn’t it? I was right there at the beginning. I could’ve been shot through a restaurant window, too. But I wasn’t, and now I’m the guy figuring out what happened.’

  Nevins scoffed, tipped his head back. ‘Holy shit …’

  ‘Frankly, I knew Ray Vialoux pretty well for a long time. I think if he heard the guy who clipped him ended up dead somewhere in New Jersey, he’d be happy. Especially on the day of his funeral. I think he’d like that.’

  Nevins didn’t answer.

  Marshall said, ‘World’s the way it is whether you know about it or not.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And what’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Well. This Marco guy, you think he only hurt and killed two people in his whole life? You think Vialoux and the lady across the road – Lydia – you think they were it?’

  ‘I’d hardly think so.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. But you’re not going to figure out who all the others were, are you? Do a full audit and make sure everyone he came in contact with gets to hear the full story of every fuckup? Guy’s dead, and it sounds like he deserved it. And I don’t see how that’s changed by people knowing about it or not.’

  Nevins just drank coffee.

  Marshall said, ‘Any case. It’s not about the guy who pulled the trigger. It’s about whoever paid him to do it.’

  ‘Right. And you have that figured out, too?’

  Marshall shook his head. ‘Not yet. There’s another – what did you call it? Another moral or intelligent dimension. I think this thing has another immoral, unintelligent dimension to it. But I’ll give you a call when I find it.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Nevins poured his coffee in the sink and set the mug down on the counter.

  ‘Too strong?’

  ‘Yeah. Probably bad for my blood pressure right now.’

  He went back outside and joined the two uniformed cops on the sidewalk. The other three were just coming down the stairs: two more uniformed officers, and Loretta Flynn bringing up the rear.

  Marshall went through to the living room. ‘Find anything good?’

  The uniforms ignored him and headed out, but Flynn stopped on the bottom stair. She looked at him as he sipped his coffee.

  Flynn said, ‘You’d have done yourself a favor if you’d left something. I get the feeling that until you’re in prison, you’ll do exactly what you want.’

  He nodded. ‘Oh, I see. You think because I’m investigating a crime in a way you don’t approve of, I should be behind bars?’

  ‘No, you should be behind bars for killing those people two nights ago. But that’s New Jersey’s problem. No doubt you’ll be talking to them before long.’

  ‘No doubt they’ll ask me some questions. But I don’t imagine I’ll be talking to them. I’m not a total idiot.’

  Flynn said, ‘Well, if you want to prove it, stay away from D’Anton Lewis, like I told you to.’

  ‘Here I was thinking it’s in your interests to have him clipped. He can’t extort you when he’s dead.’

  She gave a little derisory breath through her nose, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. ‘Not everyone on this planet is corrupt. I’m sure it was thrilling to think you’d uncovered a conspiracy.’ She came down off the bottom stair and stood in front of him with her arms folded. ‘But I’m happy to confirm I’m not being blackmailed. I’m not on the take. I don’t have some …’ She shook her head, dreaming up offences. ‘I’m not boosting my pension with some drug-money kickback scheme. Contrary to your assumptions …’ She raised her voice, jutted her lower jaw slightly as she spoke: ‘I. Am doing. My job.’

  Marshall nodded. ‘Congratulations on your institutional loyalty. But D’Anton Lewis had information pertaining to a murder investigation, and you prevented access to him.’

  She said quietly, ‘And why would I do that, do you think?’

  Marshall sipped his coffee.

  ‘Come on. You’re the ex-undercover guy. The man who’s seen everything. Why would I prevent access to him?’

  He looked at her. He was prepared to accept she wasn’t on the take. And there’d been no denial when he said she wasn’t investigating D’Anton. Which meant …

  Marshall said, ‘Who’s he testifying against?’

  She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she turned and walked away.

  ‘Who’s D’Anton testifying against?’

  She paused at the front door. ‘Pleasant as it is talking with you, I’d rather keep my job and not get into the details. I’m sure you understand.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, not really. I look at you, I think, Here’s another piece of the police machine who thinks doing her job is equivalent to doing the right thing.’ He shrugged. ‘So what if he’s a protected witness? You held up a murder investigation because it suited some unrelated strategy. So don’t go around thinking you operate with some kind of … I don’t know. Just because it’s on NYPD letterhead, it doesn’t make it virtuous.’

  She nodded, smiled faintly, like she understood his point. ‘You can give me a call when they bring you in for the New Jersey killings. I know some good lawyers.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  He closed and locked the door and stood watching from the front window as the police got back in their respective cars and drove silently away. He sat at the desk. The loose reserves were down to less than a hundred pieces now. Nearing completion. He made himself home two more pieces on the working edge, and then he went upstairs to assess the damage.

  It resembled the aftermath of a freak storm, or a haunting. Every door and drawer was hanging open. He went around rectifying things. They’d left the safe open, but his gun was still there. And his permit. No cash for them to confiscate. Not in here, anyway. He locked the safe and checked the bathroom. They’d removed the top of the toilet cistern, but replaced it imperfectly. A thin fillet of darker paint was exposed where the lid wasn’t sitting level. He jiggled it home. The phone in the kitchen rang. He went downstairs and answered. It was his neighbor, Vera.

  She said, ‘A visitation.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From members of the state. Representatives.’

  ‘Yeah. They’re gone now, though. How’s your day going?’

  ‘No complaints. That is, none that I would voice to a neighbor. To a tenant.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘So what is it, makes you man of interest?’

  He didn’t want to get into it with her on the phone. ‘Mistaken identity.’

  ‘They think you are not the man you are. Or they think another man is you.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Which is why you are here, and not there. With them. A backseat ride.’

  ‘Exactly. Vera, sorry, I have to go. I’ll come over next week and tell you all about it.’

  ‘Everything is all right?’

  ‘Yes, ev
erything is all right. Thank you very much for checking, though.’

  He went to hang up, but had an idea.

  ‘Sorry, you there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He said, ‘Do you have a computer?’

  ‘Several.’

  Marshall said, ‘Who do you go to when you need one fixed?’

  ‘Few are fixed. The theme is malfunction.’

  Marshall said, ‘So you don’t have someone you take your computer to?’

  ‘When desperate, in moments of desperation, yes. I visit Larry.’

  ‘Where’s Larry?’

  ‘Newkirk. Newkirk Avenue. I have found him competent.’

  ‘All right then.’

  ‘When searched for on Google, Larry’s business, he has four-point-nine stars. I agree with this rating of him.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Something needs fixed?’

  ‘No. I just need to ask him a question.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘You play with cards close to stomach.’

  ‘Chest. Yeah.’

  ‘Chest. Yes. Everything is OK?’

  ‘Thanks, Vera. I’ll see you.’

  He hung up, and stood for a few seconds with his hand on the phone on the wall, just thinking. Then he used his burner to call Jordan Mora’s number. Still no answer. The call went to voicemail.

  ‘Hey. Just me. Marshall. Give me a call when you get a chance.’

  He went outside and stood at the curb, wanting to be sure the police had genuinely departed. But the cars on the street were all familiar. Nothing that looked like law enforcement, or pre-arrest recon. He could hear Vera – faint but trenchant Russian coming from her upstairs office. Barely a pause. He wondered if she was giving an online lecture. He watched the street for another couple of minutes, and then he turned and slipped down the narrow alleyway between his house and Vera’s. He moved quietly into her rear yard and opened the little access hatch to the subfloor. When he’d moved in, she’d requested his help with a broken pipe beneath her kitchen. It was the gray water discharge line from her sink, and it had separated at the elbow joint. An easy fix, as it transpired. The original plumbing had been replaced with PVC, and all he’d had to do was slot the section back in and silicone the gap. He’d also taken the opportunity to nail an eighteen-inch square piece of plywood to the underside of two floor joists, thereby creating an eight-inch-deep cavity between the plywood and the flooring above. It was here that he stored his proceeds from this undercover work: the cash bundle triple-wrapped in black plastic, ribboned cross-ways with gleaming black duct-tape, like a gift from the anti-Santa.