by Jason Starr
I checked my phone, hoping that Anthony had gotten back to me. I got his voicemail.
‘Hey, Anthony, it’s Jack at um… I guess around ten o’clock. Just checking back to see what your big news is. Hope big means good. Talk to you in a few.’
In front of the 77th Street station, I waited for him to reply. Sometimes I didn’t get service on the train and I didn’t want to miss anything.
Twenty minutes went by and the only text I got was from a client – well, I guess ex-client – asking me if I had any new studios to show him.
I responded, Thanks for the interest! I’m currently transitioning to a new agency. Good luck with your search!
Then I texted Anthony, getting on train TTYL, then headed back to Queens.
* * *
Entering Anthony’s apartment, I said, ‘Hello?’
No answer.
The lights were out; the apartment looked the same as when I’d left. A quick inspection seemed to confirm that he hadn’t been home.
I checked my phone – still no voicemail or response to my text.
I was losing patience. What was up with the guy? He knew I was anxious, desperate, at a low point in my life, and he keeps me hanging like this?
I texted him again. Just, Hey.
Still nothing. I could call him again, but what use would that do? Another voicemail wouldn’t reduce his response time to the first one.
Then I noticed the red streaks on the floor. I flashed back to the townhouse, when I’d discovered Sophie’s body, telling myself, This is impossible. This can’t be happening. Not again.
Still in denial, I thought, How did ketchup get on the floor? Then the charade ended and full-blown panic hit.
‘Fuck,’ I said. ‘Holy fuck. No, no, no.’
I still didn’t want to believe this was happening. There had to be some explanation for this – well, an explanation beyond the obvious one.
Fueled by this slim hope, I followed the trail of blood into the bathroom.
He was lying facedown in a glistening pool of dark-red blood. A butcher knife had been jammed into his lower back.
Instinctively, I wanted to yank the knife out of his back, to try to save my friend. But as I reached for the handle, I stopped myself.
Was I out of my fucking mind?
After what had happened at Lawrence and Sophie Ward’s townhouse, did I really want to contaminate another crime scene? I backed away from the body out of the bathroom. But, big problem, I’d stepped in the blood, and had tracked blood from the bathroom to the kitchen.
So much for not contaminating another crime scene. I could just tell the truth, tell Barasco I’d walked into an apartment and – for the second time in about a week – discovered a dead body. Yeah, that would go over great. I’d tell him that somebody was setting me up, and he’d come up with some vague motive why I’d want to kill Anthony – we’d had a fight about something – and I’d be charged for a double homicide. I’d taken the honesty route after I discovered Sophie’s body, and where had that gotten me?
Using a wet paper towel, I wiped down the apartment the best I could, focusing on areas I knew I’d touched, like the doorknob and locks on the front door, but also areas I didn’t think I’d touched, like the table and counter top in the kitchen. Although I didn’t see any blood on the bottoms of my shoes I wiped them down too, and then I scrubbed the floor – from the front door to the bathroom. I put all of the paper towels into a plastic bag that I found under the sink. I wiped anything I touched, but I’d seen enough CSI to know that it was nearly impossible to clean up a crime scene entirely. Evidence of me – a strand of hair, fiber from my clothes – had to be somewhere. When the forensics teams found the evidence, I could claim that of course my DNA was in the apartment because I’d been staying here. If I’d left evidence on or near Anthony’s body, or if forensics found the remnants of one of my bloody footsteps, this would be much harder to explain.
The buzzer from the intercom rang.
It wasn’t particularly loud – probably the sound of a normal intercom buzzer – but it sounded practically deafening.
I tried not to panic. Kids and random delivery people always rang the buzzers to walk-up buildings – it was one of the big advantages of living in a doorman building. Besides, it was just the buzzer to the outside of the building, not like the doorbell was ringing.
The buzzer sounded again – longer this time, someone pushing down and maintaining pressure. After the buzzer sounded for a third time, there was a long period of silence.
Figuring the person had given up, I dampened a wad of paper towel, then bent down and wiped the floor of the kitchen. Some pink showed on the wad of paper towels, confirming my fear that there was still blood on the floor.
Squatting, panic hit when I heard footsteps on the stairs – someone coming up.
Still, it didn’t mean the person was coming to this apartment. A delivery person, or a visitor to another tenant, could have pressed random buzzers just to get into the building.
Only the footsteps were getting louder. Then the person seemed to reach the landing right outside the door and then:
The doorbell rang.
Again, the noise jolted me, but I didn’t make a sound. I stayed still, barely breathing, as only a couple of feet separated me from whoever was in the hallway.
The doorbell rang a few more times, then:
‘Anthony? You home?’
It was a woman, with a heavy Brooklyn, or maybe Staten Island, accent – Anthony sounded like Ant’nee. Was she Anthony’s girlfriend? He’d been married years ago, but he hadn’t mentioned another woman in his life.
‘Anthony, you there?’
She rang the bell again and then started banging on the door. If anyone else on the floor was home, they’d definitely overhear the racket she was causing.
‘I see a light on under the door,’ she said. ‘I know you’re there.’
How did a light prove someone was home? People left lights on all the time.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Open up or I’m gonna get in there somehow.’
What did that mean? Did she have access to a key from a neighbor?
Figuring I was better off just letting her in, I said, ‘One sec.’ I put the wad of paper towel I was still holding into the plastic bag, then put the plastic bag under the kitchen sink. ‘Sorry, just, um, putting some clothes on.’
I shut the bathroom door, then, finally, opened the front door.
The woman was dark-skinned, maybe Indian. She had shoulder-length black hair, and was in jeans, Nikes, and a blue hooded sweatshirt. She was stocky, had big shoulders.
‘Who are you?’ She looked and sounded surprised.
‘I’m just, um, a friend,’ I said.
The hesitation must’ve sounded suspicious as hell, but I hoped she hadn’t noticed.
C’mon, Jack, focus.
‘Is Anthony home?’ she asked.
‘No, he isn’t,’ I said, ‘can I help you with something?’
‘You know when he’s comin’ back?’
‘No. No, actually I don’t.’
‘Who are you?’ She sounded demanding, suspicious.
‘A friend of his,’ I said.
‘Name?’
Now this was getting officially weird.
‘How about you tell me your name?’ I asked.
She looked past me into the apartment. ‘You living here now?’
‘I’m sorry, who are you?’ I asked.
‘He didn’t tell me he was living with someone, so I hope for his sake you’re not. This is a major violation.’
‘Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
She glared at me for a couple of seconds, then reached into her pocket for something.
Paranoid, I thought, Gun, and may have ev
en backed away a little.
Then she held up a badge and said, ‘Officer Singh. Can I come in please?’
All of the positivity I’d had earlier had vanished. I didn’t know how I’d ever believed my life was on the verge of getting better, but I guess this was typical. Without occasional surges of optimism, how would I repeat my mistakes?
16
I was fucked.
Maybe an average person wouldn’t notice any traces of blood or other evidence of a murder in an apartment, but a cop?
‘Sure,’ I managed to say. ‘Come in.’
I stood aside and let her pass.
For a crazed moment, I thought, I should probably kill her. While I had no intention of actually killing her, in the moment it seemed like the only possible way for me to avoid spending the rest of my life in jail.
I shut the door.
She glanced around, heightening my feeling of impending doom, then said, ‘Where’s Anthony?’
‘Anthony?’ I asked. I’d heard her clearly; my thoughts were just scattered.
‘Yeah, Anthony,’ she said.
Why was she here to see Anthony? Was it possible this had nothing to do with me?
‘Um, he’s not home right now,’ I said, fighting off the image that had appeared in my head of his body, bleeding out, on the bathroom floor.
‘So who are you?’ she asked.
‘Jack. Jack Harper.’
I was afraid she’d make the connection that I was the Jack Harper who was a person of interest in the Sophie Ward murder case. But I didn’t want to lie either.
‘He didn’t mention any friends named Jack Harper,’ she said.
‘I’m his sponsor,’ I said. ‘Well, ex-sponsor.’
‘How long you been staying here?’
She hadn’t made the connection. Or if she had, she wasn’t letting on.
‘I’m not staying here,’ I said.
Now she was looking at the pillow and blanket that I’d folded and left out on the couch.
‘I mean, I crashed here last night, yeah,’ I said. ‘But I’m not staying here. What’s this all about anyway? Did Anthony do something wrong?’
‘Yeah, he did somethin’ wrong. He was supposed to meet me this morning at a diner in Sunnyside, but he didn’t show.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, I know he was working on a case last night.’
‘Makes no difference to me,’ she said. ‘He had a time scheduled, was supposed to report at nine a.m., and he didn’t show. When was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘This morning. Around nine-thirtyish.’
‘He mention anything ’bout meeting me?’
‘Actually I didn’t talk to him,’ I said. ‘We texted. It was short. He didn’t say much.’
‘He say where he was?’
‘No. No, he didn’t.’
‘Son of a bitch,’ Singh said. ‘This is another possible violation. Guy likes to play with fire, don’t he?’
‘Sorry, but I’m still confused,’ I said. ‘Violation? What sort of violation are you talking about?’
‘I’m Anthony’s parole officer,’ she said.
Anthony had worn a tracking bracelet when I first met him, but I’d thought he was finished with parole.
‘He’s on parole?’ I asked.
‘For another seventeen months,’ Singh said. ‘He still has to make regular check-ins. I can take him in right now for this, so if you know something, know where he is, you better fess up.’
‘I don’t know anything, I swear,’ I said. ‘I wish I did.’
She glanced at her phone, then her gaze met mine again.
‘So what’s this about a case he’s working on?’
I didn’t see the point in telling her. Maybe just paranoia, but after my experiences with Nick Barasco, I didn’t want to say anything incriminating.
‘Not sure,’ I said, ‘but I know he expected to be out all night.’
‘Out where?’
‘He mentioned a case he was working on in Washington Heights.’
‘A case.’ She sounded sarcastic. Then she asked, ‘Are there any drugs on the premises?’
‘Drugs?’
‘Heroin,’ she said. ‘Any heroin here?’
I didn’t want to tell her about the needles I’d found in his dresser drawer, as it would lead to a search of the entire apartment – including the bathroom.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I mean, I have no idea, but I don’t think so.’
‘If I look you up I won’t find out you’re his drug dealer, will I?’
‘What? No. I’m not a drug dealer, I’m a real estate agent.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘Well, I, um, don’t work at the moment,’ I said. ‘I’m sort of in between jobs.’
She looked at me like she thought I was full of shit.
‘Why do you think there’s heroin here?’ I asked.
‘I’ve been suspecting that Anthony started using again,’ she said.
‘Really?’ I tried to act surprised.
‘Yeah, really,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t missed an appointment yet, so maybe he’s strung out somewhere. Maybe he’s in the Heights – that’s where he sometimes goes to score.’
Feeling like an idiot for believing anything Anthony had told me, I said, ‘Well, I don’t know where he is, but as soon as I hear from him I’ll tell him to get in touch with you.’
‘Yeah, you better do that,’ she said. After another long, suspicious glare, she added, ‘Have a nice day.’
When she was gone, I was going to continue wiping down the place, then I thought, What’s the point? When the body was discovered, Officer Singh would report that I’d been in the apartment, so covering my tracks didn’t matter anymore. I just had to get the hell out of here.
Then my phone rang, only a number I didn’t recognize displaying. Usually I let calls from unknown numbers go to voicemail, but I was so distracted that I picked up without really thinking it through.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Harper?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘It’s me, Marcus Freemont. Your attorney.’
‘Hey.’
I prayed he had good news for me.
‘There’s been a development,’ he said.
Development didn’t sound good.
‘Okay,’ I said.
‘Did you get a new criminal attorney yet?’
‘What’s going on?’ An all too familiar feeling of dread was setting in.
‘Detective Barasco wants you to come in again,’ he said.
‘What the fuck? Why?’
‘Calm down, it’s not a disaster. I mean, not necessarily. He has new evidence apparently.’
‘That’s insane. New evidence of what? I didn’t do anything!’
‘Where are you right now?’
I hesitated, deciding there was no way I was telling him where I was. So cops could swarm the place? There was no way I was going back to jail.
‘I’m out,’ I said.
‘Out where?’
‘Walking?’
‘I mean where’re you staying?’
‘What evidence? Tell me what the hell’s going on.’
‘It would be better if we could meet, maybe at my office.’
Yeah, right. Meet at his office so he could tell Barasco I was there? That wasn’t an option either.
‘Just tell me or I’m hanging up on you,’ I said.
‘Okay, don’t panic, but they found DNA. Your DNA on the victim.’
‘Of course they did,’ I said. ‘I gave her mouth-to-mouth. Is that all they’ve got?’
‘Look, I only know what he told me five minutes ago,’ he said. ‘I don’t know where the DNA was from, or what in particular he’s ref
erring to.’
‘It can only be from mouth-to-mouth!’ I screamed.
‘You’ve gotta relax, man,’ Freemont said.
‘You call me and tell me the cops want to bring me in for something I didn’t do and you want me to relax? I lost my job today, all right? I may’ve lost my fucking family. What the fuck have you lost?!’
I’d screamed so loud my throat hurt.
Remaining calm, he said, ‘Detective Barasco also said you tried to kidnap your kid from school today.’
That son of a bitch school. The principal must’ve called Maria, or maybe the police directly.
‘I didn’t try to kidnap him,’ I said. ‘I tried to give him a hug.’
‘I told you to stay away from him.’
‘It was just a hug.’
I heard his deep breathing. I pictured him with his eyes closed, trying hard not to get flustered.
‘Did you hire a criminal attorney or not?’ he finally asked.
‘I told you, I can’t afford a lawyer. Look, I need time. Can you buy some time for me?’
‘It doesn’t work that way, Mr Harper.’
‘What doesn’t work what way?’
‘If they have a warrant for your arrest then you can’t just –’
‘Warrant? Who said anything about a warrant?’
‘Nobody did.’
‘Then why did you just say it?’
‘Because I assume that’s his next step, that’s all. He’s probably getting a warrant right now, or trying to get one.’
‘Then stop him,’ I said. ‘That’s your job – you’re still my lawyer.’
‘There’s nothing I can…’ he cut himself off, then said, ‘Look, maybe a friend or family member can lend you money for a good criminal attorney.’
‘You know I don’t have access to any money.’
‘Can you tell me where you’re staying?’
‘If you won’t represent me, I’m not telling you shit.’
‘I didn’t say I won’t represent you, man. I’m just being honest, telling you what I’d tell my brother if he was in your situation.’