“I can’t talk right now. I’m in a meeting.”
Pittman heard a click as the call was interrupted.
What the…?
Pittman frowned and slowly set down the phone.
Burt’s never that abrupt, he thought. Not to me. Man, he must really be pissed. He figures I let him down by not coming in.
Pittman picked up the phone again. He couldn’t tolerate the misunderstanding. Once more the receptionist transferred the call.
“Forsyth here.”
“This is Matt. Look, I said I was sorry. I swear to you it’s not my fault. I’ve got something I need to tell you about. Last night—”
“I don’t have time for that. I’m with some important people.”
For a second time, Burt broke the connection.
Pittman’s head throbbed. Frowning harder, he replaced the phone.
Yeah, he’s pissed all right. Important people. I get the point. For letting him down, he’s telling me as far as he’s concerned, I’m not important.
Pittman debated about calling a third time but reluctantly decided not to. Whatever’s bugging him, it’s obvious he isn’t going to let me settle it over the phone.
Troubled, aching, Pittman stood and reached for his clothes. They were damp but at least no longer soaked. Because he had hung his slacks, shirt, and suit coat on hangers, there were less wrinkles than he feared. Another plus was that the mud on them had caked; he was able to brush off most of it. His overcoat was a mess, however: torn and grimy. He crammed it into the wastebasket. Then he wet his rumpled sandy hair and combed it. Although he definitely needed a shave, the motel didn’t supply a shaving kit, so that would have to wait. Hungry but in a hurry, he remembered that he’d seen a McDonald’s down the street. No bags to pack. All he had to do was grab his key and leave.
Opening the door slightly, he peered out to see if anyone was watching his room. No one as far as he could tell. As he crossed the parking lot toward the motel’s office, he discovered that the air was chilly despite the bright sun. His damp socks and underwear made him uncomfortable.
4
Important people. During the Metro ride into the city, Pittman kept assessing what Burt had told him. The clack-clack-clack of the train on the rails became like a mantra and helped Pittman to focus his concentration. Important people.
Maybe Burt had been telling the truth. A week from today, the Chronicle would close its doors. There had to be all kinds of complicated arrangements to make. It was possible that the owner and the publisher and God knew who all were in Burt’s office discussing the direction the newspaper should take in its final days.
But wouldn’t people that important make Burt go to their office rather than want to meet in his?
Pittman reversed the direction of his thoughts and again suspected that Burt was angry at him.
In rush-hour traffic outside Grand Central Station, Pittman couldn’t find an empty cab, so he decided to use the subway. His intention had been to go to the Chronicle, but his watch now showed eight minutes after five. The sun was low behind skyscrapers. The air had turned cold, and Pittman’s damp clothes made him shiver again. Burt wouldn’t be at the office now anyway, he thought. He’d be on his way to the bar where he always went after work.
I’m not going to sit in that bar and have my teeth chatter all the time I’m trying to explain. What I need first are dry clothes.
Pittman got out of the subway at Union Square, still couldn’t find an empty cab, and walked all the way to his apartment on West Twelfth Street. The air was colder, the light paler as he hurried along. He unlocked the door to the vestibule of his building. Then he unlocked the farther door that allowed him past the mailboxes into the ground-floor corridor of the building itself.
As usual, the smell of cooking assailed him. Also as usual, the elevator wheezed and creaked, taking him to the third floor. As usual, too, the television was blaring in the apartment next to his. He shook his head in discouragement, unlocked the door, stepped in, shut and locked the door, and turned to discover a man sitting in his living room, reading a magazine.
5
Pittman’s heartbeat faltered. “What the…?”
The man set down the magazine. “Is your name Matthew Pittman?”
“What the hell do you think you’re… ?”
The man was in his late thirties. Thin, he had short brown hair, a slender face, a sharp chin. He wore a plain gray suit and shoes with thick soles. “I’m with the police department.” He opened a wallet to show his badge and ID. He stood, his expression sour, as if he’d much sooner be doing something else. “Detective Mullen. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“How did you get in here?”
“I asked the super to let me in.”
Pittman felt pressure in his chest. “You can’t just… You don’t have a right to… Damn it, have you got a warrant or something?”
“Why? Have you done something that makes you think I’d need a warrant?”
“No. I…”
“Then why don’t you save us both a lot of time. Sit down. Let’s discuss a couple of things.”
“What things? I still don’t…”
“You look cold. Your clothes look like they’ve been wet.”
Pittman hurriedly thought of an acceptable explanation. “Yeah, a waiter spilled water on my jacket and pants and…”
The detective nodded. “Same thing happened to me two weeks ago. Not water, though. Linguini. You’d better change. Leave the door to your bedroom open a bit. We can talk while you get dry clothes. Also, you look like you could use a shave.”
“I’ve been trying to grow a beard,” Pittman lied. In the bedroom, listening to the detective’s voice through the slightly open door, he nervously took off his clothes, threw them in a hamper, then grabbed fresh underwear and socks from his bureau drawer.
He had just put on a pair of brown slacks when he saw the detective standing at the door.
“I wonder if you could tell me where you were last night.”
Feeling threatened, his nipples shrinking, Pittman reached for a shirt. “I was home for a while. Then I went for a walk.”
The detective opened the door wider, making Pittman feel even more threatened. “What time did you go for the walk?”
“Eleven.”
“And you came back… ?”
“Around one.”
The detective raised his eyebrows. “Kind of dangerous to be out walking that late.”
“I’ve never had any trouble.”
“You’ve been lucky. Anybody see you?”
Pittman almost mentioned the cook at the diner, but then he realized that if the detective talked to the cook, the cook would mention the box Pittman had left, and the detective might find the handgun. Pittman’s permit allowed him to keep the .45 only in his apartment. It would look suspicious that he had hidden the weapon somewhere else.
“Nobody saw me.”
“Too bad. That makes it difficult.”
“For what? Look, I don’t like your barging in here, and I don’t like being questioned when I don’t know what this is all about.” Pittman couldn’t hide his agitation. “Who’s your superior at your precinct? What’s his telephone number?”
“Good idea. I think we ought to talk to him. Matter of fact, why don’t we both go down and talk to him in person?”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“After I phone my lawyer.”
“Oh?” the detective said. “You think you need a lawyer now?”
“When the police start acting like the gestapo.”
“Aw.” The detective shook his head. “Now you’ve hurt my feelings. Put on your shoes. Get a coat. Let’s take a ride.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Pittman couldn’t get enough air.
“You didn’t go for a walk last night. You took a taxi up to an estate in Scarsdale and broke in.”
“I did what? That’s crazy.”
“What’s this?”
“A Xerox of a check,” the detective said.
Pittman’s stomach cramped when he saw that it was a copy of the check he had written to the taxi driver the previous night. How the hell had the police gotten it?
The detective’s expression became more sour as he explained. “An ambulance driver heading from Manhattan to the Scarsdale estate last night says a taxi followed him all the way. He got suspicious and wrote down the ID number on the light on the taxi’s roof. So after we were contacted about the break-in at the estate, we tracked down the cabbie. He says the guy who hired him to drive up to that estate wrote a check to pay for the ride. This check. With your signature at the bottom. With your name and address printed at the top.”
Pittman stared at the copy of the check.
“Well, are you going to admit it, or are you going to make me go to the trouble of bringing you and the cabbie face-to-face so he can identify you?”
Pittman exhaled tensely. Given what he intended to do seven days from now, what difference did it make? So I broke into a house to save an old man’s life, he thought. Is that so big a crime? What am I trying to hide?
All the same, he hesitated. “Yes. It was me.”
“There. Now don’t you feel better?”
“But I can explain.”
“Of course.”
“After I call my lawyer.”
Pittman passed the detective at the door to the bedroom and entered the living room, heading for the telephone.
“We’re not going to have to go through that, are we?” The detective stalked after him. “This is a simple matter.”
“And I want to keep it simple. That’s why I want to call my lawyer. So there aren’t any misunderstandings.”
Pittman picked up the phone.
“I’m asking you not to do that,” the detective said. “I have just a few questions. There’s no need for an attorney. When you were with the old man, did he say anything?”
Pittman shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Did he say anything?”
“What’s that go to do with… ? So what if… ?”
The detective stepped closer, his face stern. “Did… the… old… man… say… anything?”
“Gibberish.”
“Tell me.”
Pittman continued to hold the phone. “It didn’t make any sense. It sounded like Duncan something. Then something about snow. Then… I don’t know… I think he said Grollier.”
The detective’s features tightened. “Did you tell anybody else?”
“Anybody else? What difference would… ? Wait a minute. This doesn’t feel right. What’s going on here? Let me see your identification.”
“I already showed you.”
“I want to see it again.”
The detective shrugged. “This is all the identification I need.”
The detective reached beneath his suit coat, and Pittman stiffened, his pulse speeding at the sight of the gun the detective pulled out. The gun’s barrel was unusually long. Pittman suddenly realized that it wasn’t a barrel but a silencer attached to the barrel.
Policemen didn’t carry silencers.
“You meddling shit, you give me any more trouble and I’ll put a goddamn bullet up your nose. Who else did you tell?”
The tip of the silencer snagged. As the man’s gaze flickered down toward his suit coat, Pittman reacted without thinking, a reflexive response. Despite his self-destructive intentions, he had no control over his body’s need to defend itself against sudden fear. Startled, in a frenzy, he swung the phone with all his might, cracking its plastic against the man’s forehead.
The man lurched backward. Blood streaked his brow. He cursed, struggling to focus his vision, raising the pistol.
Terrified, Pittman struck again, smashing the man’s nose. More blood flew. The man fell backward. He walloped onto a coffee table, shattered its glass top, crashed through, and slammed against the floor, his upturned head ramming against the metal rim of the table.
Staring at the pistol in the man’s hand, Pittman raised the phone to strike a third time, only to discover that he’d stretched the extension cord to its limit. Trembling, he dropped the phone and searched desperately around for something else with which to hit the man. He grabbed a lamp, about to throw it down at the man’s head, when at once he realized that the man wasn’t moving.
6
The man’s eyes were open. So was his mouth. His head was propped against the far metal rim of the coffee table. His legs, bent at the knees, hung over the near rim.
Holding the lamp high, ready to throw it, Pittman stepped closer. The man’s chest wasn’t moving.
Dear God, he’s dead.
Time seemed to have accelerated. Simultaneously Pittman felt caught between heartbeats, as if time had been suspended. For seconds that might have been minutes, he continued to stare down at the man with the gun. Slowly he set the lamp back on its table. He knelt beside the man, his emotions in chaos.
How did… ? I didn’t hit him hard enough to…
Christ, he must have broken his neck when he smashed through the glass. His head hid the metal side of the table.
Then Pittman noticed the blood pooling on the floor under the man—a lot of it.
Afraid that the man would spring into motion and aim the gun at him, Pittman touched the corpse’s arm and shifted the body. He swallowed bile when he saw that a long shard of glass had been rammed into the man’s back, between his shoulder blades.
Pittman’s face felt clammy.
He was thirty-eight years old. He had never been in the military. Apart from the previous night and the Saturday seven years earlier when the two men had broken his jaw, his only experience with violence had been through people he had interviewed who were acquainted with violence, either as victims, criminals, or police officers.
And now he had killed a man. Appalled by the blood on the telephone, he gingerly set it on its receptacle.
What am I going to…?
Abruptly he worried that somebody had heard the crash. He swung toward the wall behind which the neighbor’s television blared—people laughing, an announcer saying something about a trip to Jamaica, people applauding, a game show. He expected to hear urgent footsteps, the neighbor pounding on the door.
Instead, what he heard was the TV announcer giving out a prize on the game show. No matter the noise from the television, his apartment seemed eerily quiet.
What if I was wrong and he really is a policeman?
Breathing with effort, Pittman opened the man’s suit coat and took out the police identification that the man had shown him. A card next to the badge said that the detective’s name was William Mullen. The photograph on the ID matched the face of the dead man. But as Pittman examined it, he was unnerved to discover that the photograph had been pasted over another photograph, which didn’t look anything like the corpse. Pittman checked the man’s wallet, and in addition to almost four hundred dollars, he found a driver’s license in the name of Edward Halloway, residence in Alexandria, Virginia. Pittman had never heard of any New York City policeman who lived several states away. This definitely wasn’t a cop.
What the hell was he, then?
7
The phone rang.
Pittman stared.
The phone rang a second time.
Who would—?
The phone rang a third time.
Should I—?
The phone rang a fourth time.
Suppose it’s Burt.
Pittman picked it up. Listening, he said nervously, “Hello.”
Pause.
Click.
Jesus.
8
In a rush, Pittman entered his bedroom, grabbed a brown sport coat, and pulled his suitcase from his closet. Instantly he put the su
itcase back and took out the gym bag he had used when he had still been a runner. He had once interviewed a security specialist, who was an expert in blending with a crowd. One of the hard things, the expert had said, was to find something that would hold weapons or equipment but not be conspicuous. A suitcase was too bulky, and besides, anybody who carried a suitcase into any public building other than a transportation terminal attracted attention.
Conversely, while a briefcase looked more natural, especially if you were well dressed, it wasn’t big enough. But a reasonably attractive gym bag was ideal. Enough people went to exercise after work that a gym bag appeared natural, even if the person carrying it wore a suit, although casual clothes were obviously better.
And a gym bag held a lot.
Trembling, Pittman put a fresh pair of underwear and socks into the bag. He shoved in an extra shirt, a tie, his black sweat suit, his running shoes, his electric razor, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and shampoo.
What else?
This isn’t summer camp you’re going to. You have to get out of here fast. That phone call was probably from someone working with the gunman.
Pittman hurried into the living room, frowned down at the corpse, and almost took the four hundred dollars from the dead man’s wallet.
That would look great to the police. After you killed him, you thought why not steal from him, too?
What about his gun?
What about it?
Do I take it?
Who do you think you are? John Wayne? You know enough about guns to shoot yourself, not anybody else.
9
As the phone started ringing again, Pittman grabbed his spare overcoat, opened his apartment door, peered out, saw no one, went into the dimly lit corridor, and locked the door behind him.
In his apartment, the phone kept ringing.
He hurried toward the elevator. But the moment he reached it, extending his right hand to press the down button, not yet touching it, he heard a buzz.
Creaking, the elevator began to rise from the ground floor.
Pittman felt pressure behind his ears.
Desperate Measures Page 8