by Ben Sanders
‘I …’ She let her breath out through gnashed teeth, tears still falling. ‘I can’t …’
‘You can tell us. Did he hurt Jennifer? You can tell us.’
She put her face in her hands again. She sat like that for a long time.
‘Ginny?’
She looked up. Features warped and crumpled, as if summoning the memory of something awful. She said, ‘Sometimes at night …’
‘Sorry?’
She looked up again. ‘Sometimes at night …’
But she couldn’t finish the thought. She closed her eyes and just sat there shaking her head, face wet with tears, Jordan rubbing her back.
A minute later, Marshall heard sirens, saw the red and blue light in the windows.
An on-call night-shift detective took their statements. Marshall gave her the background, and the blow-by-blow of what had happened tonight. She told him she wasn’t in a position to run down details, but the day watch would be taking over in the morning. Boyne would be held for a psych evaluation following the attempted suicide, and then questioned about the death of his daughter. As of right now, he wasn’t facing charges. He was being detained for his own safety.
Marshall gave his statement and then stood outside to wait for Jordan. It was a good turnout: ambulance, two NYPD patrol cars, and a detective’s ride. He watched the two paramedics and a uniformed cop bring Martin Boyne out the front door and down the steps on a stretcher. Boyne as blank and waxy as something out of Madame Tussaud’s. He watched the paramedics load him in the ambulance, and then drive away. The cop drove off, too. No one else out on the street. This was just New York normal. Every metric of weirdness for what had happened had been exceeded before.
Nevins came outside and stood looking at him.
Marshall said, ‘What?’
‘How did you know he’d try to shoot himself?’
‘I would have, if I was him.’
Nevins was still looking at him.
Marshall said, ‘Ginny looked so surprised when he said he was calling the police, I remembered – she mentioned once that they only have a downstairs phone. He could’ve had a cell, I guess. Shame I didn’t think of that.’
‘Why? You prefer another corpse?’
‘In this case, yeah. Chances are, he won’t admit anything. And there’s probably no evidence left. The best solution now is for him to not be on the planet.’
‘The best solution would’ve been to work the evidence for another couple of days, and then knock on his door.’
‘Yeah, well. Evidence disappears, doesn’t it?’
Nevins didn’t answer.
Marshall said, ‘Sometimes guilt does, too. And if you get people …’ He thought about it. ‘If you catch them with their conscience at its blackest, sometimes they tell you something.’
‘You just told me he’s not going to say anything.’
‘Not with his mouth. I figure though if you run upstairs and try to shoot yourself in the head, you’re probably guilty of something.’
‘Yeah, exactly: something. All we’re probably going to know was that it was bad. Whatever he was doing to her. Bad enough, she ended up hanging herself.’
Marshall shook his head. ‘You were as convinced as I was. You saw what happened.’
‘Yeah. Like I say: convinced that he did something.’
‘The lack of information isn’t my problem. It’s a problem with the universe.’
‘Depends if you think Marco Perrin being murdered is a problem with the universe, or a problem with whoever killed him.’
‘I don’t see any problem at all with him being dead.’
‘Yeah, I had a feeling that might be your opinion.’ He looked back at the house, shook his head. ‘I want to know what it takes to get the better of a guy like that, you know?’
‘Who? Smiley Marco?’
‘Yeah. Someone that evil, what does it actually take?’ Looking at Marshall now. ‘Someone better, or someone even worse? You know what I’m getting at?’
Marshall said, ‘I’m surprised you’ve been around this long, haven’t learned what counts as a good result.’
‘No, I think I have a good understanding of the concept.’
Marshall shook his head. ‘We’re meant to buy into this myth that the law is one size fits all. It’s bullshit. You know, anything else in life – anything complex – you hear all about how you need different solutions to suit different problems. Well, I agree. And the fact that there’s such a thing as a career criminal, it’s obviously proof that the justice system doesn’t cover all scenarios. And every now and then …’
He thought about it, Nevins watching him carefully. Nevins said, ‘Yes?’
‘Every now and then, the solution is a guy like me.’
Nevins said lightly, ‘I think we’re beholden to quite different principles.’
Marshall nodded. ‘Yeah. You’re beholden to a system that takes forever, and a lot of the time doesn’t help anyone. I’m … I wouldn’t say beholden. I like the idea of people getting their comeuppance sooner rather than later.’
‘Careful what you wish for, huh?’
Marshall shook his head. ‘No, I already got mine. I was undercover for two years. I told you that. Trapped with the mob for two years, because the people on the official channels wouldn’t listen when I said I needed to be pulled out.’ He shrugged. ‘Basically, I paid the price for not taking things into my own hands sooner. And I don’t want to be one of those people who had to learn a lesson twice.’ He looked around for a moment, putting the rest of it together. ‘Doing things my way has got you every piece of substantive information in this case. And I’m sorry I didn’t bring it to you on a platter. I can imagine that must be frustrating.’
Nevins smiled emptily. ‘No, what’s frustrating is knowing you’ll get away with killing four people in New Jersey the other night.’
‘Oh, well. Tell the FBI you saw me sprinting out of Cifaretti’s bagel shop. It might change my good fortune.’
‘So you did do it?’
Marshall shook his head. ‘No. I’m just observing that that piece of circumstantial evidence is not in my favor.’
Nevins said, ‘Rest assured, I told the FBI something similar. And I told them all about your means and motive.’
‘And they didn’t believe you? It’s hard sometimes, isn’t it?’
Nevins said, ‘I don’t know that they didn’t believe me. They said the scene examination implied a narrative consistent with internal dispute. In other words, it looks like they thought Little Marco was a liability, so they took him out there to get rid of him, and everyone started shooting at each other.’
‘Sounds plausible.’
‘No, I think the evidence is less consistent than they imply. But what they told me is they’ve been under pressure, as is always the case, and they’re pleased to have a straightforward resolution. Because pressure means money, doesn’t it? And now they can cross Cifaretti off the list and attribute the death to some other dead guy, and they don’t have to spend six or seven figures taking you through the courts. So you can bitch all you like about the people on the official channels. But you’re off the hook because someone at Department of Justice decided the budget spreadsheet would look better if they left you alone.’
Nevins looked at him a long moment. Marshall could see he had something else to say, but in the end he kept it to himself. He turned and walked away towards his car.
Marshall said, ‘It’s your last day.’
Nevins stopped and turned back. ‘What?’
‘You told me Tuesday’s your last day.’
Nevins nodded. ‘Last day shift. I’m still on call until the end of the week. This might’ve been my last case. Thanks for the messy ending.’
He got into his car and drove away.
THIRTY-EIGHT
They caught an Uber back over to Marshall’s place in Flatbush. The cat was waiting for them.
Jordan said, ‘Who’s this?’
‘Boris. Belongs to the neighbor.’
He followed them inside.
Marshall said, ‘You want a drink?’
‘Yeah. I think I better.’
She followed him to the kitchen.
‘You might be out of luck in the wine department. I have beer, though.’
‘Beer’s fine. Don’t bother with a glass.’
He popped the caps off two bottles and handed one to her.
Jordan said, ‘I’m not sure if you’re meant to say cheers or not. After something like that.’
‘Yeah, I know. You feel like dinner at all? I can make something.’
She said, ‘I don’t know. I’ve got this …’
He waited.
‘I’ve got this weird feeling that nothing’s the right thing to do. Like I’m meant to just stand here all night and reflect on it.’
‘Yeah. But then what do you do tomorrow? Are you meant to carry on being somber?’
She drank some beer, looked at him past the tilted bottle. ‘You mean, if eventually you’re going to get back to being normal, why not just do it now?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well. There’s no logic, is there? It’s a feeling. It might last, or it might not.’
He didn’t answer.
She said, ‘How do you feel about it?’
‘I don’t know …’ He gave it some thought. ‘I guess the best measure of it is … it’s like: how absorbed are you by the thing that happened, and how often do you just think about normal stuff?’
‘Yeah. And where do you fit into that?’
‘I’m still thinking about the awful stuff.’
She said, ‘Me too.’
Boris came in, and served as a good focal point. They both looked down at him, shiny cat eyes looking back a little disappointed at the lack of cat food, and it seemed to break them out of the topic. Jordan put her beer down on the counter. ‘I’ll freshen up. Then maybe some Uber Eats.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Uber Eats? It’s like regular Uber, except only your food rides in the car.’
‘I see.’
She went upstairs, and Marshall used his burner to call Hannah Vialoux. It rang through to voicemail, and Marshall left a message asking her to call him back. He went to press END, and then hesitated. He said, ‘We know what happened, now.’
He clicked off, and just stood there for a moment, thinking about everything. He finished the beer and took another one from the fridge.
He said, ‘I should’ve known it was him from the interview.’
Quiet.
Then: ‘What?’ Calling from the upstairs landing.
He said, ‘The first time we talked to him, he was off. Boyne, I mean. He couldn’t remember anything. He couldn’t remember anything about the car, he couldn’t remember anything about the smiley guy’s passenger. But then we showed him the photo, he suddenly decides it was Renee Lewis. I should’ve known he was full of shit. He was just making it up as he went.’
A long pause. Then she said, ‘You got him eventually.’
‘Yeah. Sort of.’
Jordan said, ‘I think you should do some of your puzzle.’
‘Yeah. I think I should, too.’
He took his beer through to the front room and sat at the desk, closed the Yellow Pages and relegated it to the floor. Puzzle space only now. He should’ve been here when he stepped through the door. He turned on the lamp. The working edge was shrinking. Maybe eighty pieces remaining in the reserves. Call it eighty square inches of image, yet to be infilled. Almost there. He had the desk space now to separate the reserves, see them each as disparate and essential components. Unity inevitable. All it involved was Marshall’s vision, Marshall’s talent. This close to the finish, he could almost make the lineups by inspection, no need for trial placements. He sat there for a moment, silent, hands to knees, sight-matching the colors, and when he finally moved, he made a clean, first-try placement on the right-side vertical working edge and then followed up with a quick second. The third piece gave him more trouble, nothing there for him initially despite a strong hunch, but he made a confident float-placement: setting the piece down inside the active zone but with no contact just yet. It would come. The parameters now were too constrained for there to be any real question. It was all just a matter of time.
The front door crashed open with a bang that shook the house. Marshall leaned away, arm raised out of reflex, looked back in time to see the door with its mangled locks bounce back off the adjacent wall.
And then D’Anton Lewis stepped inside.
Pistol in one hand and a sledgehammer in the other.
He leveled the gun at Marshall. ‘Don’t move.’ He smiled. ‘You’re great just sitting there. Put your hands up. Come on, hands up.’
Marshall raised them. D’Anton ducked forward slightly to see up the stairs. ‘Company, I take it?’ Smiling still. ‘Sorry to interrupt your evening.’
He heard Jordan say, ‘Oh, shit …’
D’Anton said, ‘No, no: don’t worry. I only need a moment of your time. Stand there, though. Where I can see you.’
He leaned the sledgehammer against the doorframe, careful, like returning an umbrella after an evening stroll. Then he opened his coat and brought out the bone-handled knife, jiggled it casually as if taking its weight for the very first time. Gleam of the blade in the light of the desk lamp.
He said, ‘Shame I had to ask the question twice.’ He lined the gun up on Marshall’s face. ‘So are you listening now? Are you listening real good?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Where is she? Where is my wife?’
‘Boston.’
‘Where in Boston?’
‘Cambridge. I don’t remember which street.’
‘I think you can.’
‘No, no, listen. Listen to me. Everything you need is here. It’s on my phone in the bathroom. It’s just upstairs. Everything you need is in the bathroom.’
D’Anton ducked and glanced upstairs again.
Marshall said, ‘There’s no password or anything. You just slide the cover back and it’s ready to use.’
D’Anton said, ‘Get it.’
Marshall slid his chair back.
‘No, not you. Sit down. Sit the fuck down. She can get it.’ He stepped back, widening his angle, ducking down a little more. ‘That the bathroom there? Behind her?’
Marshall said, ‘Yes.’
‘All right, get it. Ten seconds, come on.’ Louder now: ‘Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! … Yeah, that’s it. Come on down. Bring it here.’
He heard Jordan descending the stairs, glanced behind him to see her proffering her giant smartphone.
D’Anton returned the knife to his coat. ‘All right, throw it to me.’ Clicking his fingers. ‘Careful.’
Jordan lobbed him the phone, and D’Anton caught it one-handed. Juggled it briefly to get it up the right way, found the button that lit up the screen.
‘You said there’s no password.’
Marshall had been expecting the bang, but when it came, the sound was still a shock: impossibly sudden and loud. D’Anton was standing right beside him, in profile to Jordan. He took the bullet through the ear and fell sideways against the edge of the table, the free-fall weight of him shunting it sideways, breaking a leg, sending everything to the floor. Marshall was left sitting there like some fluke-fortunate earthquake survivor: untouched, but with debris all around him. A medley of blood and brain and jigsaw. A Pollock in its own right.
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Oh, man …’
‘Are you OK?’
He glanced back at her. Wide-eyed, pale, clench-jawed. She still had the Colt raised, smoke coming off the muzzle. He hadn’t returned it to the safe when they visited the Boynes. Still in the bathroom, wrapped in its towel. Violations of protocol, paying dividends. He said, ‘Yeah. I’m all right.’
He looked at his puzzle again. No salvaging it. The breakup was total. He
said, ‘Shit. I can’t believe it.’
The phone in the kitchen rang.
Marshall said, ‘You mind getting that? It’ll be Vera, next door. Just let her know everything’s OK.’
He stood up from the chair and stepped out through the open door into the dark and the nighttime cold. At the far curb a few doors up was a black SUV. Marshall headed over. The driver’s window descended before he got there. One of D’Anton’s bodyguards was at the wheel: the guy with the sore shoulder. The guy he’d tousled with during that first meeting.
‘What happened?’
‘He’s dead. Come and wait inside, if you want.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘Yeah, we shot him.’
‘Oh, fuck …’
Marshall turned and headed back to the house, heard frantic motion behind him: seatbelt click and whine, a door opening and slamming, and then the guy sprinted past him and up the front steps, through the open door.
‘D’Anton, D’Anton!’
The guy went to his knees, felt for a pulse. Jaw and then wrist.
‘D’Anton, holy shit. What have you done …?’
Unclear if the question was for the dead or for the living. The guy started chest compressions, panting through his teeth to the rhythm. From the kitchen, Marshall heard Jordan say, ‘Yes, we’re OK, we’re both absolutely fine. Yes, we’re absolutely fine …’
The cat standing there looking at her, wanting something to eat.
Marshall shut the front door as best he could. D’Anton had done a good job. One swing with the sledgehammer, and both locks had blown out through the timber. He shoved it back against the latch, watched the bodyguard for a moment. His shoulder seemed to be holding up OK with the CPR. Marshall stepped around him and picked up his burner phone from the mess on the floor. He called Nevins.
Eight rings.
Then: ‘Detective Nevins.’
Marshall said, ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d pick up after hours.’
Nevins sighed. Line-crackle. ‘Is that why you called? To verify my after-hours policy?’
‘No. I’ve got one more for you.’
Silence.
‘One more what?’
Marshall said, ‘What do you think?’