Murder.com

by David Deutsch

  My first stop was going to be the Apple Store on 59th and 5th. Right around the corner from my brownstone. After all, it was on the way. I showered and made my way into the kitchen for some breakfast.

  "I was up. So I figured, why not?" Imogen had decided to stop by the bagel shop and pick up a half-dozen bagels for breakfast. She went with the sampler—poppy, onion, everything, garlic, salt, and her favorite: cinnamon raisin. I was a poppy guy. In addition, she had an extra-large cup of coffee waiting for me with cream and sugar, a rare treat. She did love me.

  "Where's the butter?" I never ate cream cheese. I hated it.

  "You're welcome," Imogen said, pointing to the butter, another dairy treat, still sitting in the bottom of the small brown paper bag that had once housed my coffee.

  "I didn't even hear you leave."

  "I'm sneaky." She smirked. "Walked out when I heard the shower turn on. You slept in this morning."

  "Sometimes I need to rest these weary bones. Yesterday's conversation threw me for a loop."

  Imogen was dressed for work. She had on a smart grey skirt, white button-down blouse, and black high-heeled shoes.

  "What time are we going to head over to the office?" she asked.

  I had to pick up her ring, and while I was at it do a little shopping. Both without Imogen. I tried to think fast. "Oh, um, I totally forgot to tell you. I have a breakfast meeting with Jay, about his contract." Terrible answer. What contract? What did that even mean?

  Imogen didn't miss a beat. "Then why are you eating breakfast?"

  "Not really breakfast, per se, more like a time frame. Morning."

  "Oh, right. Well then. Do you mind if I still head in there? I've got a few things to tie up with Robert."

  "My dear, I would love it! No worries, I'll be in late morning."

  Then it was agreed. I had a few hours of personal time. The weather wasn't terrible. It was a clear, cold day. I would be able to walk around for a bit down Fifth Avenue without freezing, as long as I made periodic pit stops into some of the shops.

  Imogen left the brownstone, and I followed moments later, walking around the corner to the square glass structure that sat atop the Apple store that was housed underground. I walked over to the entrance and then wound my way down the light wood winding staircase that led underneath 59th and 5th into the store. I loved it there. After all, I was a tech geek at heart.

  I made my way over to the MacBooks. Maybe I'd buy Imogen one of the new ones. After all, nothing said merry Christmas like a new MacBook. I played around a little bit at the MacBook table. The place was jam-packed. Next to me was a woman in her early twenties, bundled up in her best hipster gear, with pigtailed braids peeking out of her beret. She had on 1950s-style oversized black glasses, and underneath her pea coat I could see a black skirt with candy-cane-striped tights underneath. Across the table was a man in his late forties, black hair, a few strands sticking out from under his ski hat, dark beard, and a black puffy coat.

  I moved over to the iPhones. Fiddled with them for a bit and then over to the iPads. No one asked if I needed help. The guys and gals in their red holiday Apple shirts were busy running around ringing up tourists that were buying out the store. It was unbelievable. I played a couple of games on one of the phones.

  After deciding that a MacBook was a bit impersonal for a Christmas gift, I decided to leave. I waited in the line to ascend the stairs back to street level. Lazily, the tourists and I made our way up the stairs, one slow step at a time. Within a few minutes, I was out.

  I moved my way through the crowds toward Fifth Avenue. I crossed the street to the fountain that sat outside the Plaza. I could breathe over there for a minute before I started my trek down Fifth.

  Bergdorf was off to my right. I considered stopping in there, but it seemed very overwhelming. I didn't shop in stores like that, although I was quite sure Ginny would like something in there. Fifth Avenue was packed. The sea of people started to push me along. I was caught in the current. I didn't think I could have stopped even if I had wanted to. The mass of people ushered me past Louis Vuitton and straight through to 57th Street. I stopped and then made my way across the street into Tiffany & Co. Here I would complete phase one of my morning: picking up the ring.

  My body was starting to warm up as I headed to the second floor in the elevator. I unbuttoned my coat and undid my scarf, letting it hang around my neck. The ride was short, although I had to share the elevator with a couple that was utterly bewildered that they were actually in the elevator at Tiffany. The door opened, and I walked over to one of the salesmen. His nametag read Fernando.

  I told him that I was here to pick up a ring. He told me to wait a moment and walked off the sales floor to find it. While I waited, I looked around at the people in the store. It was mostly comprised of tourists gawking at the diamonds. There were a few others trying on rings, necklaces, and assorted diamond-studded jewelry. Ah, the holidays in New York.

  Fernando reappeared with the ring. We both examined it, Fernando pointing out every little detail, me staring at it blankly. It was a beautiful ring, as was affirmed by the salesman.

  "Mr. Slade, this ring is beautiful. The young lady is going to love it," he said while placing it in its blue box home.

  "It sure is," I said.

  "If you don't mind me asking, when's the big day?"

  "Can you believe it, I don't know yet. I'm still working on it."

  That was all Fernando needed to know. I ended the conversation, paid in full for the ring, took my pretty blue box, put it in my pocket, and then headed back to the elevator.

  When the elevator doors opened, I could see the exit directly in front of me. As I began walking toward the door, I saw a man off to my left dressed in a black hat and a black puffy jacket looking at a watch. It was the guy from the Apple Store. Looked like he made his way over to Tiffany too. Everyone was last-minute shopping for the holidays. Glad I was not the only one.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Back on Fifth. I continued my walk, passing Trump Tower and Gucci. Besides the ring, I had to purchase a holiday present in order to throw off the scent of an impending proposal. Hopefully not behind Plexiglas over a phone at a prison.

  I stopped at Gucci. Took a quick look around, had no clue what to buy, and then walked out of the store, not before bumping into a woman in her mid-sixties, in a fur coat with a Gucci bag draped over her shoulder containing a Papillon dog in a red sweater. She had on large black cat-eye sunglasses and red lipstick.

  "Excuse me, ma'am," I said as my right arm brushed into her left shoulder.

  "Mr. Worthers!" she said, nervously checking her dog. She must have thought that I had crashed into the pooch.

  I stopped, which was a rare occurrence for me, and any New Yorker for that matter, and asked, "Everything OK? Sorry I bumped into you, miss."

  She looked at me, now calmer that everything was apparently fine with Mr. Worthers. "Do try to be a little more careful next time, son."

  I nodded and then walked out of the store, shaking my head. Standing outside Gucci, I thought about where I should be heading. I surveyed the mass of humanity that was in constant motion, accentuated by the cars, trucks, and taxis frantically moving down the avenue. There was an old brownstone church across the street. Perhaps I should pop in there to pray for all of these people's materialistic souls.

  I turned around to get a quick look at the Gucci window one more time before I continued my walk. Something caught my eye in the reflective glass. The man in the black jacket. He was across the street waiting at the bus stop. He was looking at his phone, standing there.

  My walk commenced, and I headed toward 56th Street. I figured that I would find something at Saks. So that was where I had decided to walk. By the Rolex store, I spied the man in the black coat again across the street. Was I crazy? Was that him? I tried to take a look without him catching my glance. I continued to walk, turning my head to the right, staring at the guy with the beard. That was him. Ther
e was no doubt about it. He was looking straight ahead, walking. Was he following me?

  I kept heading south, trying not to peek across the street at the man in the black jacket, but it was hard. I was obsessing about him now. My eyes were continually darting across the street. He was in stride, parallel, keeping pace with me. I sped up. He sped up. I started to panic. I started to run.

  This was how it usually went down. Some guy followed you. Then caught you. Then killed you. That wasn't going to be me.

  As I was approaching 50th Street, I had a choice to make. I had worked myself into a full sprint, and the man was still there. I had to try to lose him. St. Patrick's Cathedral was just ahead. Should I go in there? I might lose him in the church. With no time to think or to devise a plan, I turned left into the cathedral, pushing past tourists gawking at the house of worship. I ran passed the pillars and pews toward the front of the church, trying to lose myself in the crowd. When I was by the altar, I stopped, turned toward the back, and tried to see if I could locate the man in the black jacket. It was a long way from the altar to the entrance of the church. I squinted and then, to my horror, spotted him. He was slowly strolling through the entrance. Hat off now, his straight black hair falling in his eyes, which he pushed back with his hand, he made his way down the right-hand aisle, head turning, trying to locate something. Me.

  I moved to the left-hand side of the church, crouched over like I was performing a military operation and started to slowly move myself toward the exit. The man was now in a bit more of a hurry. Walking faster, head darting everywhere, trying to locate his prey. Me.

  Still crouched, I inched slowly through the crowd. People were looking oddly at me. Stranger things had happened in New York, I thought. If I saw someone crouched, walking on the street or pretty much anywhere around the city, I wouldn't even think twice about it. Tourists! I had nearly made it to the exit when the man spotted me. Time froze when his cold brown eyes focused on me. I stopped dead in my tracks, realizing that this man was going to try to kill me. After holding my gaze for a moment, he turned his head, scanning the church in front of him. I bolted out the door.

  Down the steps I flew, across the street, and then continued at full speed downtown. I was running for my life, dashing past tourists, brushing against them as I ran. Peeking behind, in full stride, I could see the man in pursuit. Passing Saks, I kept going and then quickly turned right into Rockefeller Center, making a beeline toward the giant tree that was sitting in front of 30 Rock.

  The crowd was dense here, as Rockefeller Center was decorated, as only New York could, for the holidays. Intricate gold-wired herald angels lined the walkway where I was sprinting, playing their trumpets. I didn't bother turning around to see where the man with the black jacket was located. I just made my way as fast as I could toward the skating rink, where I was going to hang a left. I made it to the front of the rink, the flags of all the nations in front of me, people ice-skating below, and tourists clamoring to get a picture of the tree.

  I quickly turned left and looked back toward Fifth Avenue. The man was still in full pursuit. I was now on 49th and Rockefeller Center, running as fast as I could. I nearly got hit by a sightseeing bus. They were everywhere, lining the streets. This must be the pick-up/drop-off area.

  By the time I reached 7th Avenue, I was out of breath. I stopped, bent over, gasping. I checked for the man behind me but didn't see him. Maybe he was winded as well. After a moment, I caught my breath and then continued running down 7th Avenue toward Times Square. I'd lose him there for sure.

  I periodically looked over my shoulder, but there was no sign of the man as I approached Times Square. By the time I was at 42nd Street, I could hardly breathe. I stood in the middle of Times Square, looking north, scanning for the man in the black jacket. Nothing. Somehow I had managed to evade him. I felt a sense of accomplishment, and then the fear set in. I had just been chased around New York City. What had my life become?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I hailed a cab and tried to regain my composure on the ride home. I cracked the window to allow some cold air into the car. The stench of incense was making me nauseated.

  "Can you turn off the heat?" I asked, hoping this guy would listen.

  "It's freezing, my friend. No. Crack a window."

  "I did. The hot air is blowing in my face."

  "Open the other window."

  Thank you for being so accommodating.

  Ten minutes later, I arrived home. I ran into the brownstone and threw myself on the couch.

  What had just taken place? Had I been pursued by an individual intent on killing me? He certainly wasn't chasing me down to simply say hello. Did I recognize him? No. Who was he and why was he chasing me? I needed a drink.

  I fixed myself a scotch, sat back down, and then realized the time. Jabber ran over to me and was jumping up and down. She had to go out.

  "Not now, girl," I said.

  Jabber ignored me and started barking. I took a slug of my drink.

  "OK." I picked up her leash, put it on, and we both headed out the door and down my stoop. I walked Jabber down my block. She peed by the tree with the wrought iron fence around it. On the way back toward the brownstone, I pulled out my phone and texted Ginny. I'm not heading into the office. Knock off early and head back home. We'll grab a late lunch. Moments later I received the reply. I don't take half days, with a wink emoji. Before I had finished reading the first, I received a second text: I'll be home in twenty minutes.

  Once we made it back into the apartment, I made myself another drink and sat back down. Realizing that I had a ring wrapped in a Tiffany box in my jacket pocket, I pulled myself back off the couch. I removed it from my jacket and looked for a suitable hiding place. I decided on my underwear drawer. Imogen wouldn't be poking her nose around in there. Why would she? It wasn't like she did my laundry. We sent it out in a laundry bag and it returned neatly folded. Sometimes I really loved New York City.

  When Ginny walked through the door, I immediately offered her a drink. "It's two. I'll wait to have some wine with lunch," she said. Killjoy.

  "Have I got a story for you, my dear."

  "You don't say. Well, I can't wait to hear it with a side of food. Let's go."

  We walked around the corner to Fina, asked the hostess for a seat, and moments later we were sitting at our favorite table. It paid to be a local. I ordered minestrone soup and an individual pizza. Ginny had a pasta dish. I also ordered a bottle of Sassicaia, a fantastic, legendary red from Italy. I was celebrating my good fortune to still be alive after this morning's events.

  The wine came, the waitress poured, Imogen and I toasted.

  "To life," I said.

  "L'Chaim," Imogen replied.

  We touched glasses and each of us raised ours to our lips and took a sip.

  "Mmm," Ginny said.

  "Delicious."

  "So, what's the occasion?" Ginny asked. "We don't order $300 bottles of wine every day."

  "I'm happy to be alive," I said.

  "Well, that's a change," Ginny joked. "I thought you were ready to pack it in the other day, now that you're forty and all."

  "I was just chased all around the city."

  "What?"

  "Literally, chased around New York today."

  "Max, what the hell are you talking about?"

  I took a sip of my wine.

  "Seth was right!" I said, a little too loudly.

  "You're not making any sense, Max."

  "You know when Seth said that Mike was trying to kill him? And then he wound up dead? Well, he was right! Some guy just chased me down Fifth Avenue. He was trying to kill me!"

  I must have been visibly flustered. I took another sip of my wine, finishing the glass. I guess it was more like a chug. I poured myself another.

  "Max, take it easy!" Imogen said, not referring to the wine. "I don't need you having a heart attack right before the holidays."

  "I'm not going to have a heart attack—maybe a
stroke, but not a heart attack." I tried to calm down and make light of my apparent shell-shocked state. "The guy must have been working for Mike."

  "You've got to call Detective Carrington. This isn't safe."

  "He's not going to do anything about it. We don't know who the guy is, where he went, anything about him. He's going to think I'm crazy."

  "Maybe it was some guy that Kitty hired? Or Mike or Ken or any of them."

  "I thought about that. It could be. I'm not sure anymore. I don't know what the hell is going on." I took a bite of my pizza. I needed some food to counteract the alcohol that had started to take effect. "But we need to find out. BMC's party is in a couple of days. We might get to the bottom of it there."

  "And how do you propose we do that?" Imogen asked, and took a sip of her wine.

  "I've got an idea."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The following morning Ginny and I set off on our way to the suburbs, the suburbs where my house, Imogen's house, and, most importantly, Kitty's house sat, in my RS 7. One of the benefits of owning a brownstone in the city was the garage. A garage was a highly coveted feature in Manhattan. It was six in the morning when we opened the garage door and sped out onto 63rd Street. There were no other cars around this early in the morning. It was smooth driving navigating our way through the city streets to the West Side Highway.

  The sun rose over the skyscrapers of Manhattan like the opening bars of "Rhapsody in Blue" as we wound our way up one of the most beautiful roads in the city. Hugging the river, we drove north, the rising sunlight bouncing off the water. I put on my sunglasses and headed toward the bridge.

  "Good thing we picked up some coffee," Imogen said. "I'm tired."

  "At least you're not driving."

  We crossed the George Washington Bridge and then veered off onto the Palisades Parkway. It was more like a country road than a parkway, lined with trees and roads that curved by each exit. We were technically in New Jersey and would be for the next fifteen minutes, until we crossed back into Rockland County, New York.