The Anniversary Man

by R.J. Ellory

′Yes.′

  ′You′re willing to tell us what you′ve found?′

  ′Hell yes, what the fuck d′you think I called you for? Jesus, man, you think this is some kind of game?′

  ′So we meet somewhere. I′ll come get you personally. I can guarantee—′

  ′Nothing,′ Roberts said. ′You can guarantee me nothing, Detective. You have secure lines there, at least within your department, your own precinct right?′

  ′Of course we do.′

  ′Bullshit. Not when we′re talking about what I know.′

  Irving paused. ′Someone inside—′

  ′Enough already. Like I said. We′re not dealing with this right now, and no, I am not coming in to your precinct. We need to meet somewhere. ′

  ′Yes, definitely . . . we need to meet.′

  ′And I want a public place. Somewhere where there′s other people . . .′

  ′Okay,′ Irving said. ′Where?′

  ′Jesus, how would I know? A department store, a restaurant . . .′

  ′A diner? We could meet in a diner.′

  ′Sure. A diner′s okay, and . . . and bring someone with you.′

  ′Bring someone?′

  ′Yes, bring someone. Not a police officer . . . someone neutral.′

  ′Like who?′

  ′Anyone. I don′t fucking care. Just not a police officer.′

  ′What about Karen Langley?′

  Who′s that?′

  ′She′s a reporter from the City Herald.′

  ′Yes, that′ll do. Bring her.′

  ′You know Carnegie′s on Seventh Avenue, at 55th Street?′

  ′No, but I can find it. This evening, okay? And give me your cell number.′

  Irving did so.

  ′I′m gonna call you later. I′ll give you a phone box number. You go out of the precinct to another phone box and you call me back. I′ll be waiting. I′ll tell you what time we′re gonna meet. You come with the reporter woman, but please, no-one else. I see anyone else I′m gone, you understand?′

  ′Yes, I understand . . . understand completely.′

  ′Okay, so we′re done. Wait for me to call you, don′t do anything else to try and find me. Nothing to create attention, you know? What I gotta tell you . . . fuck, man, you don′t want the NYPD helping this guy to track me down.′

  ′Someone inside the department . . . that′s what you′re saying, isn′t it? You′re telling me it′s someone within the department—′

  ′Later,′ Roberts said, and the line went dead.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  Irving found records relating to Karl Roberts in the Seattle PD database. Made Detective in ′87, Vice for three years, Narcotics for eight, wound up taking early retirement in early ′99, moved to New York in 2001, registered as a licensed PI in July 2003. No question about it. The face on his police file matched the face on the ID card he′d been issued. The man was real. He was not a ghost. He had trained as a detective, had served with a good record, and now had worked on the Mia Grant killing as a private investigator. And Karl Roberts said he knew who the perpetrator was. He had implied that the perpetrator was within the New York Police Department. This of all things was the hardest for both Irving and Farraday to swallow, but such a thing was not unknown. Farraday authorized that the Roberts APB be pulled, but agreed with Irving that they keep the Costello one live.

  ′And you′re going to take Langley with you?′

  ′I don′t have a choice,′ Irving replied. ′I′ll go over there and see her. I want as much of this off the phone lines as possible.′

  Farraday shook his head resignedly. ′You really think that this could be someone within the department?′ And then he added, ′That was rhetorical, you don′t need to answer.′

  Irving drove across to the City Herald offices, spoke briefly with Emma Scott at the front desk, and she put a call through to Karen Langley.

  Langley - believing perhaps that Irving had news of John Costello - told Emma to let Irving come on up right away.

  He found her standing at the window in her office. She looked agitated, distraught, and he knew that what he had to tell her would not make things any easier.

  ′Why me?′ was her first question, and before Irving had a chance to answer she threw a further barrage of questions at him. Did Irving think that John was dead, that he′d committed suicide, that he might have been murdered? Could John Costello actually be the insider within the police department that this Karl Roberts was speaking of? Wasn′t Costello now ′inside′ the police department as a result of his work with Irving? That would make sense, that would explain why Roberts had demanded that Irving come with someone who was not directly connected to the police. But then, if that was indeed the case, surely Roberts would have realized where Costello worked, and who he worked for? But if that were so, then he surely wouldn′t have wanted her to be at the meeting. Didn′t that prove that John couldn′t be involved . . . ?

  ′Karen, Karen, Karen.′ Irving went to her and gripped her shoulders firmly. He directed her back to her chair and sat her down. He stood there for a moment looking at her. She seemed utterly lost. Terrified. As if the slightest thing might now send her spinning over the edge into such a depth of emotional devastation that she might never return complete.

  ′The answer to everything is that I don′t know, Karen. Not for sure. The answer to every single question you have is going to be one hell of a lot easier once we′ve met with Karl Roberts and learned what he knows.′

  ′But why me?′ she asked once more. ′Why does he want me to go with you?′

  ′He didn′t ask for you. He asked for someone who isn′t in the department. He′s a frightened guy, Karen. He may have been a police detective, but he′s still a human being, and he thinks his life is in danger. He knows something, and he feels he needs someone neutral there . . . maybe he thinks I might be involved . . . God knows. Or he might think that we already know it′s someone in the department and I′ve just been assigned to clean it all up and keep it out of the papers. I think if I was in his shoes I′d do the same thing . . .′

  ′Jesus, Ray, I can′t say no, can I? This thing scares the crap out of me . . . and I tell you something, if I only knew where John was I′d feel one hell of a lot better.′

  ′We′re doing everything we can,′ Irving said. ′I′ve got everyone I can looking for him, and now we′ve pulled the APB off of Roberts it′ll improve our chances.′

  Karen was silent for a time, and then she leaned forward and said, ′Tell me the truth, Ray. Tell me honestly, deep in your heart, do you really think that John might have done these things?′

  Irving shook his head. ′I don′t think so,′ he replied. ′And I really don′t want to think so, but it′s a possibility . . . hell, Karen, however slim it might be, it′s a possibility that I can′t rule out completely.′

  ′And if he did . . . and we′ve been living with that all this time, and you had him inside the precinct, working alongside you, telling you where to look—′

  ′Then I′m out of a job, Karen, and I′m gonna come ask for a job here.′

  Karen Langley smiled weakly. Irving was trying to inject some light into the moment, but there was no room for it. It was dark, claustrophobically so, and it would remain that way until they knew the truth.

  ′So?′ Irving prompted.

  ′So?′ Karen echoed. ′So nothing, Ray . . . of course I′ll come. It′s not a choice, is it?′

  Irving sat down facing her, and the exhaustion, the bone-deep fatigue that wracked his body showed in every line and crease and shadow on his face. ′No,′ he said quietly. ′It′s not a choice.′

  The hours crawled, as Ray Irving knew they would. He returned to the Fourth, spoke with Farraday, and Farraday - understanding the huge pressure brought to bear upon Irving by the intensity of the investigation, perhaps sensing he needed to show some compassion for the position Irving was now in - let him be. He asked nothing further from him at that time,
and Irving sat in the incident room, even spent the better part of an hour in the station canteen, considering all that had happened, trying so hard not to raise his own expectations of what Roberts could tell them. Ex-police detective or not, Roberts could still be wrong, and even if he was right, would there be anything but circumstantial evidence? Would there be a case? Or would this be another step forward toward further irresolution?

  At five Irving called Karen Langley but got her voicemail.

  At five-eleven his cell rang and Roberts was there.

  ′Six o′ clock,′ he said. ′Where you said . . . the diner. Okay?′

  Irving was on his feet. ′Yes, we′ll be there.′

  ′And you′re bringing the woman, right?′

  ′Yes, she′ll be there.′

  Roberts hung up.

  Irving called Karen Langley.

  Karen left the Herald offices at five twenty-two, crossed the street and walked half a block to her car. She was unaware that the driver of a dark grey rental sedan was watching her closely from the corner of West 33rd opposite the General Post Office.

  At five twenty-eight she pulled out onto Ninth Avenue and headed toward Central Park. The sedan went after her, hanging back like a shadow, the driver tracking her all the way to the car park back of the 57th Street subway station, watching her as she made the short walk to the Carnegie Delicatessen & Restaurant at 854 Seventh Avenue. He parked the sedan near the corner of 58th, kept the front entrance to Carnegie′s in his clear line of sight, and was pleased to see Ray Irving arrive. He knew Ray Irving′s face as well as anyone′s. Ray Irving was as much a part of this as anyone, as much a part as Mia Grant, James Wolfe, the Allen family or any of the other victims. Ray Irving was the hub about which this small universe now turned. It had begun with him, and with him it would end.

  ′Ray,′ she said as he approached the table. She was seated in a corner booth, almost as if seclusion from the main hubbub of the restaurant, the distance from the street, would somehow divorce her from the reality of what was happening.

  ′You okay?′ Irving asked as he sat down across from her. Instinctively he reached out and closed his hand over hers.

  ′God, you′re cold,′ she said, and then she smiled, trying perhaps to make this rendezvous seem something other than what it was. They were friends, good friends, perhaps even lovers; they were meeting for dinner; the world they faced was nothing more nor less than the world which they themselves had created. There were no dead people, there was no serial killer; there was no meeting with a retired Seattle detective who possessed information that could give them the truth of what had happened to seventeen innocent people in the space of five months. There were regular days, kids to collect from drama class, a discussion about whose parents were coming for Thanksgiving . . .

  The kind of conversation Jean and Howard Allen might once have had.

  But no. This was neither of their lives. And however innocent and ordinary Ray Irving and Karen Langley might have appeared, the reality of who they were and why they were there could have been understood and appreciated by so very few people.

  They were there because people had been brutally and sadistically murdered. They were there because someone had taken it upon himself to carry forward a mission to rid the world of those he considered unworthy. There was insanity, inhumanity, a complete lack of mercy, compassion or compunction. And these things had now crawled beneath the skin of Ray Irving and Karen Langley and darkened their perspective of the world even further. This was not TV. This was no R-rated movie on limited release. This was the worst the world had to give, and they were walking rapidly toward it in the hope that it could be stopped.

  They held hands for a moment more, and then Irving sat back. He smiled - that all-too-familiar expression of philosophical resignation - and Karen smiled back.

  ′I don′t know if sorry is appropriate,′ he said, ′for everything that has happened with John.′

  ′I′m too tired,′ she said. ′I pray that he′s okay. I don′t know what to think, and I′m past the point of trying to figure it all out.′

  ′We need to know what this Roberts guy has learned.′

  ′So we wait,′ she said.

  ′We wait.′

  ′You hungry?′

  ′No,′ Irving replied. ′You?′

  ′Could use some coffee.′

  Irving got up, walked to the counter to speak with a waitress. He returned to the booth and moments later the waitress appeared, filled their cups, asked them to call for her if they decided to eat.

  They sat in silence, the tension written on their faces, reflected in their body language, their eyes.

  The driver of the sedan sat in silence too, and though he couldn′t actually see Irving and Langley, he knew they were there, somewhere back of the glass, somewhere within the light and warmth and safety of the diner.

  Such light and warmth and safety were transient, as were all things. What you believed you possessed could be lost in a heartbeat. Taken away forever. Such was the way of the world.

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Time seemed to collapse in upon itself, for when Irving′s cellphone rang, when he snatched it from the table and saw the unidentified caller ID, it seemed as if they had been talking for no more than a handful of minutes. It was already three minutes to six.

  ′Yes?′

  Karen raised her eyebrows.

  Irving snatched a napkin from the dispenser, took a pen from his jacket pocket and wrote down a number. ′Okay,′ he said, and he hung up.

  ′Let′s go,′ Irving said, little more than a whisper, but compelling in its urgency.

  They hurried across the street to a phone booth on the facing side.

  They angled their way through the folding door, pressed one against the other, Irving clutching a handful of change, pushing the first of three or four coins into the box. His heart racing, his pulse doubling up, feeling it in his throat, in his temples, eyes wide, breath like smoke, the two of them cramped together as if they were sharing the same skin, and emotions running high . . .

  The sound of the coins dropping through the slot and rolling down. The metallic click as Irving lifted the receiver. The sound of the tones as he punched the buttons, and knowing that this was the break, the thing he′d been looking for, praying for, hoping against all intuition and experience that told him something like this could not happen.

  In minutes, no more than minutes, he would be face-to-face with someone who understood what had happened to Mia Grant, someone who had exposed a single layer of deceit that surrounded this nightmare, and had come back with an idea, a thought, a belief, a supposition, anything . . .

  Perhaps even a name.

  And in that moment Irving was aware of how deeply he had submerged his own doubt, his own fear that this could be something else entirely. He had convinced himself that he didn′t care who the Anniversary Man was, didn′t care whether or not they were crazy. He did not want to understand the reasons for their actions. He didn′t care whether it was someone he knew, someone he′d met, even if it was someone with the police department . . .

  He just wanted to know, and he wanted them stopped.

  ′Irving?′

  ′Yes, it′s me, I′m here,′ Irving gasped.

  ′She′s with you? The reporter?′

  ′Yes, she′s here, she′s right beside me.′

  ′You know Madison Square Park?′

  ′Yes, I know it.′

  ′Meet me there. Fifteen minutes—′

  ′I don′t understand,′ Irving interjected. ′We′re here now, where we agreed to meet, at the diner—′

  ′We′re not meeting there. I′ve changed my mind. You come to Madison Square Park, or we don′t meet at all.′

  Irving looked at Langley. She could see the anxiety in his expression.

  What′s happening? she mouthed.

  ′Where exactly?′ Irving asked.

  ′There′s some benches in the north east cor
ner. Same corner as the New York Life Building.′

  ′Yes, I know where that is.′

  ′Fifteen minutes. Just the two of you. I see anyone else I′m gone. Don′t be late.′

  ′I got it—′

  The line went dead.

  Irving stood there for some seconds, his heart threatening to hammer its way right out of his chest, and then he hung up the receiver, started maneuvering his way back out of the booth, Karen Langley beside him, talking as he went, telling her where they were going, that the location had been changed.

  ′You believe this guy?′ she asked, as Irving grabbed her hand and started across the street toward his car.

  ′Believe him?′ Irving said. ′Jesus, Karen, I stopped asking myself what I believed a good while back. Right now there isn′t anyone else. Right now I just have to find out what he knows.′

  They took Irving′s car, pulled out of the car park and headed south toward Madison Square.

  A minute later the dark grey sedan pulled away from the sidewalk and entered the stream of slow-moving traffic right behind them.

  They didn′t see a thing.

  From the car Irving called Farraday. He told him where he was going, that Langley was with him, that they were meeting Roberts in the park, not at the diner as originally planned. Perhaps something had spooked him. Perhaps he just figured an open space was better. Irving asked for unmarked cars on each corner of the park - West 26th and Fifth, West 23rd by the station, south east at the corner of Madison and East 23rd, and then half a block over from where they would meet Roberts, parked against the curb beneath the shadow of the New York Life Building.

  ′Roberts was a cop,′ Irving said. ′He knows this shit as well as we do. Put one guy in the driver′s seat, another on the floor back of him. Two guys in a sedan is just too fucking obvious.′

  Farraday gave Irving a cleared frequency for his radio. ′Take it with you,′ he said. ′Leave it switched on inside your coat.′

  ′This has to be airtight,′ Irving said. ′Anyone makes their presence known we′re fucked.′