I Know Everything

by Matthew Farrell

  The rain began to pick up, smacking against the windshield. Randall dialed Pooh’s number and waited. The line picked up before it had a chance to ring twice.

  “Mandy, oh my god, I was freaking out. Where have you been? I’ve been texting you. Are you all right?”

  Randall squeezed the phone.

  “Hello? Hon, you there?”

  Pooh’s voice was deep, and the concern in it was unmistakable.

  “Mandy, you there?”

  “Her name is Amanda.”

  There was a long pause on the other end. Randall waited.

  “Who is this?” Pooh finally said, his voice more sheepish now, unsure.

  “This is her husband. Don’t hang up.” He took a breath. “What’s your name?”

  More silence.

  “Okay, you don’t have to tell me your name. I don’t really care anyway. I’m calling to tell you that Amanda died two nights ago in a car accident. That’s why she hasn’t been returning your texts. I’m sure you—”

  The line disconnected. Randall redialed, but it rolled to voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message and returned to the texts.

  I’D LIKE TO MEET YOU. I’M NOT MAD. I’D JUST LIKE TO UNDERSTAND WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN AMANDA AND ME THAT WOULD MAKE HER TURN TO YOU. NOW THAT SHE’S GONE I NEED ANSWERS. PLEASE.

  He hit send and placed the phone in his cupholder, wondering if Pooh would call or text back. Probably not, but it was worth a shot. Randall turned on the windshield wipers and backed out of the funeral home.

  There were things that needed tending to before he could return home.

  17

  The office where Wilbur Fitzgerald sat and oversaw the administration of Amanda Brock’s nonprofit empire was quite the contrast to the people the programs were supposed to be helping. Two oversized oak doors swung open into an impressive corner suite that had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Bryant Park and 42nd Street West. There was a sitting area by the doors with two leather couches and four leather armchairs surrounding a coffee table made of glass and bleached driftwood. Opposite the sitting area was a quaint bar lined with top-shelf liquor.

  Wilbur stood from behind his desk when Susan and Tommy walked in. He was a tall man, old and gaunt. He reminded her of Vincent Price in the old horror movies she used to watch with her dad when she was younger. She would bury herself in the crease between her father’s armpit and hip, using his bicep to shield her eyes if things got too scary. If she began to whimper, he’d stroke her hair. She’d loved that. Sometimes she’d whimpered when she wasn’t really scared, just so he would play with her hair and whisper that there was nothing to be afraid of. Her dad was right there.

  “Detective Adler. Detective Corolla. Welcome.”

  “Actually it’s Investigator Adler and Investigator Corolla,” Susan replied. “The state police don’t have detectives.”

  “I see.”

  Susan followed Tommy and Wilbur toward Wilbur’s desk. She looked out the window and could see the people in Bryant Park crowding the holiday huts that had been set up adjacent to the seasonal ice-skating rink.

  “Quite a view you have,” she said, slipping into a seat in front of the desk.

  “The view is taken into consideration with the price of the rent, I’m afraid. I always thought this space was a bit much, but Amanda wanted to project a sense of accomplishment for our more wealthy and corporate donors to see.”

  “Well, I’d say you accomplished her vision. If I was a donor, I’d be very impressed at this setup.” Susan crossed her legs and propped her notepad on her thigh. “I appreciate you meeting us. Just have a few follow-up questions regarding Amanda for my file.”

  Wilbur nodded, turning solemn. “What a loss. Such a tragedy.” He tried to smile. “I’m not sure what you’d need to know from me, but ask what you wish.”

  “How long have you been the director of Glass Hearts?”

  “Nine years. I took over after our last director retired. I was the vice president on the board, and they asked me to assume responsibility.”

  “Was Amanda active with the foundation?”

  “Absolutely. Amanda spent every waking minute thinking about less fortunate people and trying to come up with better ways to help and serve them. The actual business of the nonprofit was largely left up to me to run with our board. Amanda was more interested in a boots-on-the-ground approach. She was always off somewhere attempting to make a difference.”

  “And what is the future of the organization now that Amanda’s gone?”

  Wilbur’s lips tightened for a moment. “We’re waiting to hear back from the attorneys, but we believe the organization will automatically convert to shared ownership within the board, in which case we move on and fulfill Amanda’s dream of making people’s lives better. If there are any other hiccups, we’ll work through them. All of this, as you can imagine, is quite shocking. We’re just trying to get our heads around her passing at this point. We’re letting the lawyers work on everything else.”

  “Of course.” Susan made her notes. “From the different areas of concentration Glass Hearts has, do you know if there was one specific neighborhood or place in particular that Amanda would visit more than others?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Do you know if any of the people she helped took a liking to her? Did she become friends with anyone she was helping?”

  “They all adored her,” Wilbur said. “Amanda was one of the kindest people ever put on this earth. The care she gave was returned with love, tenfold.”

  “And her relationships here at Glass Hearts were good?”

  Wilbur put his elbows on his desk and leaned forward, staring intently at Susan and Tommy. He lowered his voice. “This isn’t about wrapping up a file, is it? You think there was foul play involved in Amanda’s death. The kinds of questions you’re asking. You’re looking to see if anyone had motive to harm her.”

  “We can’t really comment.”

  “Then I won’t pry.” Wilbur leaned back in his seat. “But if my instincts are true, I feel it’s my duty to point you in the right direction. Start with her husband.”

  Now it was Susan who leaned forward. “What about Dr. Brock?”

  “Don’t like him. Never did. One day Amanda is traveling the country trying to forge donor relationships, and the next she’s getting married. It was all too fast, as far as I’m concerned. But she’s always been a woman of action, so I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised. Apparently, she met Randall in San Francisco, and they kept in touch until she finally convinced him to move East so they could be together. Before I could make heads or tails of her new relationship, I was standing in a church watching them get married. It happened too quickly.”

  “Was their marriage okay?”

  “As far as I can tell.”

  “Did Randall ever harm Amanda?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Do you have any proof Randall Brock could be involved in Amanda’s death?”

  Wilbur shook his head. “Just my instinct. If I had actual proof of anything, I would’ve already called the police. I didn’t even know her death was suspicious until just now. But if you’re saying her accident wasn’t an accident, I’m telling you to look into Randall. He’s trouble.”

  Susan closed her notepad and rose from her seat. “Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald. I think that’s all we need for now.”

  “Not a problem,” Wilbur replied. “Feel free to call me should you need anything else. I’m here to help. Remember that. I owe Amanda everything.”

  18

  He was planning on picking up his dry cleaning, stopping by the supermarket, and heading back to the house to look at dresses for Amanda to be buried in, but instead, Randall found himself immersed in Amanda’s phone, searching for clues as to who Pooh might be. He was finally able to identify the man through a picture they’d taken together sitting on a bench in Madison Square Park. At first glance, it seemed like a fairly innocuous photograph
. Couple sitting together, smiling for a selfie. No one around them seemed to be paying attention, which was the beauty of the city. You could hide in plain sight, and no one cared to look for you. But something caught Randall’s eye. Pooh had been holding a small stack of mail against his chest. All it took was the magnification of the picture and a quick Google search to ensure the blurry, blown-up letters matched what he thought he was seeing, and Randall had his man.

  His name was Hooper Landsky, but according to his Facebook profile, all of his friends called him Hoop. Amanda had simply spelled his name backward in her phone contacts to keep his identity hidden. Hoop equaled Pooh. Mystery solved.

  Hoop owned his own architecture firm and worked out of a building on East 22nd Street, across from Madison Square Park. Randall wondered how many times they’d met up for coffee or lunch or, perhaps, something else. His stomach turned at the thought. How could he have been so blind?

  He knew he should go home and get to work preparing for the next few days, but instead, he drove to Manhattan, contemplating whether he would confront his wife’s lover or not. He parked in a garage near the Hammerstein Ballroom and walked over to Hooper’s building on 22nd Street. The firm’s name was HL Architects. They were on the fourteenth floor.

  Randall called from the lobby and asked if Mr. Landsky was in. The receptionist said he was and patched him through, but Randall hung up before the call connected. At that point he left the building, walked across the street to Madison Square Park, and waited, semihidden among the leafless bushes and general anonymity of the city itself, to catch a glimpse of the man who’d been having an affair with Amanda. If he confronted him, what would he say? Was there a point to finding out why she’d been cheating? Was there a point to any of it now that she was gone?

  He waited, and it didn’t take long before Hooper came out of his building. It was lunchtime, and people were spilling onto the already-busy sidewalks in search of something to eat. Hooper had dark hair, a thick beard, and an athletic build and was handsome. He was wearing jeans that hugged his muscular thighs and a slim-fit black-and-red flannel shirt. Despite the cool temperature, he didn’t wear a jacket. Seeing him in person, knowing what he’d done with Amanda behind his back, hurt Randall more than he’d thought it would. He could barely breathe.

  Hooper waited on the corner of 22nd and Park with about a dozen other people. He had earbuds in and was swaying ever so slightly to the music. When the light turned green, he crossed Park Avenue. Randall stepped out from behind the bushes and followed.

  The shirt was easy to keep track of in the dense crowd. Randall hung back as they crossed 5th, then 6th Avenue. If they stopped for a light, he would turn and face the opposite direction until they started moving again. He wasn’t sure how much this guy knew about him or if Amanda had shown Hooper any pictures. It was better to play it safe. He still wasn’t sure if he’d try and talk with the man or if this trip was purely a reconnaissance mission.

  As they were nearing 7th Avenue, Hooper finally ducked into a small eatery. Randall waited outside, counted to twenty, then sneaked in and stood in a corner where there was nowhere to sit. The place was spacious by Manhattan standards, with couches and soft chairs on one side and tables on the other. People were working on their computers or talking in small groups. Specialty coffees and a lunch menu were scribbled in colored chalk on a board behind the counter. Every few minutes, a bell would sound as the cook pushed out a fresh plate of something onto a serving tray.

  Randall watched as Hooper stood next in line to be served. He could see the attraction someone might have to this guy. He looked like a man’s man, but not so much that he couldn’t be sensitive too. The messages on Amanda’s phone played back in his mind. How could she have done this to him? To them?

  He looked down and noticed his hands shaking. He couldn’t tell if it was nerves, anger, adrenaline, or fear. It didn’t really matter either way. He stuffed them in his jacket pockets to keep them hidden and tried to blend in, but the texts and the pictures kept rotating through his mind. Then something else came. Something darker. An idea. A plan.

  His phone rang.

  Randall fumbled inside his pants pocket, tearing at the phone as if he’d just been woken from a nightmare. He could feel a small quake inside his skull and turned away from the line, hoping Hooper didn’t look toward the origin of the ringing. Luckily, the place was busy, and the general noise of the crowd helped disguise the ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “You shouldn’t be there.”

  “Who is this?”

  “You shouldn’t be there. Leave. Now.”

  Randall cupped a hand over his ear. “I can hardly hear you. Who is this?”

  The voice on the other end paused. “I told you to look in her phone. Find her truth. That’s all you were supposed to do. Why are you following him?”

  It was Sam.

  Randall glanced over his shoulder. Hooper was gone. He scanned the shop to see if he’d taken a seat but didn’t see him anywhere. No sign of Sam either.

  “Where are you?” Randall asked. “How did you find me?”

  “Hooper already left. I don’t think he noticed you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Close.”

  Randall ran out of the shop and looked up and down the street before stepping into the flow of pedestrian traffic. He could see Hooper was already crossing 6th Avenue, and as Randall looked toward 7th Avenue, he saw a man standing still amid the sea of moving people. The figure was wearing a long black coat, and an oversized black hood covered his face. He was holding a phone up to his ear.

  Sam.

  Randall jumped off the steps and ran as fast as he could, ducking and dodging his way past the people streaming at him from every direction. He could see the top of the hood turn from him, but the figure was still too far away.

  “Stop!”

  When he yelled, the people on the sidewalk moved out of the way so he could pass. He stumbled across the street and just missed being hit by a taxi, horn blaring for him to get out of the way. He sprinted to the corner of 7th Avenue, stopped, and looked around, phone still in his hand, his breaths heavy and ragged. Sam was gone. He waved at an older man who was passing by.

  “Excuse me,” he panted. “Did you see a guy walk through here? Long black coat? Big hood?”

  The man shook his head. “No, sorry.”

  Anonymity in the big city. A blessing and a curse.

  Randall looked at the incoming calls on his phone. Sam’s call had come from “Unknown Caller.” He redialed but knew it wouldn’t go through. He waited as the phone rang countless times, breathing heavily in the cold air. No one answered. No voice mail.

  Hooper had made it back to his office. Randall had never had a chance to talk to him. He’d never even had a moment to look into his eyes and search for the reason why Amanda had done what she’d done. Sam had gotten in his way, and Randall knew the man with the hood was out there somewhere, watching him, following him. What he didn’t know was why.

  Who was this man?

  What exactly did he want?

  19

  Susan came home after the kids had already eaten. They were in the living room watching Finding Dory for the hundredth time, snuggled together under a blanket while Beatrice sat in one of the dining room chairs, knitting a bright-red sweater. The yarn extended up from a wicker basket at her feet and danced like a cobra for its snake charmer. Everyone turned when Susan walked in with Tommy trailing behind her.

  She made introductions, then moved into the kitchen while her mother gathered her things and called it a night. Casey and Tim were fascinated with her new partner, asking him question after question about where he was from and where he lived now and if he knew whether the video game store at the mall had opened back up yet after the fire they’d had a few months earlier. Tommy took it all in stride, answering everything as best he could until the twins finally settled down and took to just staring at him from the living ro
om. They no longer cared about finding Dory. They wanted to know all they could about Tommy Corolla.

  Susan grabbed two beers and placed them on the kitchen table before they began emptying their files on the Brock investigation. “Crosby lets me have some leeway when I’m on a case. He knows I have the kids, so he tries to accommodate. But I can’t miss anything on a case, so I take my work home with me most nights.”

  “Yeah,” Tommy replied. “I get it. No worries.”

  She watched him as he read through the forensic report. She could tell he was one of the good guys, and it felt nice to be leaned on when it came to the job. There hadn’t been a true transfer at the barracks in years.

  Tommy put the autopsy report back on the pile. “I don’t know what we’re running all over the place for,” he said. “It’s gotta be the husband. Fitzgerald told you flat out.”

  “All Fitzgerald told us was they got married fast. That’s not a crime. Besides, Fitzgerald could be covering his tracks and throwing us off onto Randall. You never know.”

  “How do you figure?”

  Susan shrugged. “Maybe the foundation’s bylaws say that if the board takes control of the company, each board member gets a payday. I don’t know. With Fitzgerald being the president of the board, that could set him up big.”

  “Maybe. Let’s bring Brock in and shake a confession out of him anyway.”

  Susan laughed. “It doesn’t work that way. And what makes you think it was the husband? Other than Wilbur Fitzgerald’s gut.”

  “It’s always the husband. Wife dies mysteriously—it’s the husband.”