by Offit, Mike
Anson Combes stood apart from the throng of people at the bar, watching. The horn-rimmed glasses he wore constantly slipped down the thin bridge of his fine nose, and every minute or two, he’d push them back into place with his index finger. One of the new Finance associates, a heavyset Stanford business school student who had been working eighteen-hour days since June, had delivered a gin and tonic to Combes, who had thanked the young man and briefly talked to him about a new deal, complimenting him on his performance. The younger man drifted away, and Anson seemed lost in thought, the bright light of the ironic disco ball reflecting off his glasses. Something evidently amused him, and he let out a guttural snort.
“Whatever you’re thinking about, or whomever, I kind of feel sorry for them. I know that snort of yours.” Warren had come up behind him and was chewing on a stick of beef teriyaki. “It kind of sounds like tearing flesh.”
“Funny, or maybe ironic, you should say that.” Combes nodded at the stick of charred meat.
“Good party?”
Combes scratched his ear and let out a nervous titter. “Well, it was, right up until now. You?” Anson’s tone of voice was brutal—it conveyed pure hatred, hidden behind a thin veneer of good-natured ribbing.
“So far. Say, how’s Philippa doing? I saw her on Madison Avenue the other day. She must be due any day. I thought she looked terrific.” Warren had been surprised when Combes had gotten married. He’d been divorced twice and, as Kerry Bowen had recounted, broken off an engagement with a gorgeous twenty-two-year-old associate just three days before the wedding a couple years ago. His new wife was pleasant, in her midthirties, but seemed antithetical in every way to the thin, model type Combes usually went for. She’d been four months pregnant at the wedding, which took place in the late summer.
“What?” Anson looked confused.
“I said that I saw Philippa—your wife, remember?—the other day, shopping on Madison Avenue, and I thought she was carrying the baby very well. She looked terrific.” Warren had to shout a little as the band had picked up the volume.
“Yeah, she looks great—for a fat fucking pig.” Anson snorted. “I call her the Waddler. It’s just gross.” Anson snorted again, and his glasses slipped down as he scratched his ear. He pushed them up.
“Jesus, Anson. Jesus H. Christ.” Warren looked at Combes with disbelief. Stan Heifitz, a corporate trader, with his back turned to them, choked on whatever he was eating, having heard what Anson had just said about his wife. His savagery went beyond just business. Warren wanted to just get away from him. “Umm … I think I’ll go ask Bev for a dance.” Bev Gershon was the heavyset, maternal woman who ran the closing department. She was eternally single, ate constantly, always had a ready smile and a big laugh, and loved to get drunk and dance. She was across the floor, talking to a group of trading assistants, throwing back her curly hair and roaring in laughter, her glasses, attached to her neck with a beaded chain as always, bouncing on her chest.
“Yeah. That’s a good idea. I could use a dance too.” Combes looked around. “Maybe I can find that girlfriend of yours, Bonnie.” Warren had been uncomfortable when a girl he’d dated for a few months back in college, an attractive woman from Hong Kong, wound up getting a job in the syndicate area. Nobody knew they had once dated, and her familiarity with him had caused some comment. People speculated that Warren had a crush on her. He’d taken some teasing, most of it jealous and playful. He knew Combes had been hitting on her for a while and also knew Combes figured Warren was a frustrated suitor. This undoubtedly made Anson even more interested in bedding her, his peculiar one-upsmanship driving him and his marriage inconsequential. Bonnie was a grown-up and could make her own decisions. Warren let Anson think he was winning this game.
“Yup. Well, catch you later, Anson.” Warren spun on his heels and wandered toward a group of salesmen who surrounded a waiter with a tray of shrimp puffs. He saw Larisa across the room talking to Anson’s secretary, Annlois, and felt a slight pang. Larisa looked fantastic, in a fitted suit, her hair let down from its usual work ponytail or bun.
Dutch Goering had one hors d’oeuvre in his mouth, and two reloads in his left hand. He grabbed Warren as he walked by, spilling a little of the vodka from the cup in his right hand. Warren hadn’t had a drink since he and Sam had drained a bottle of champagne sitting on a rock watching the seals play in Monterey two weeks before. They’d had a great two days together. Thinking about her made him thirsty.
“Hey. Hey, Anson!” Goering shouted over the music, but Combes didn’t hear. “Aw, fuck. I wanted to know how it went with Golden State yesterday. That fucking psycho sees my buddy Dick Leahy and doesn’t even call me in. Fuck him.” Warren noted that Combes had met with First Cal again, this time in New York, and, as usual, completely ignored the professional etiquette of letting the salesman who covered the account know.
“Hey, Dutchie boy, easy on the sauce. We don’t want the National Guard to be called out to their own armory. “Goering was notorious for his inability to hold liquor and his love for pouring it down.
“Hey, Hament, blow me, okay? I can outdrink you any day, you little Semitic pussy.” Dutch was slurring his words only mildly, a sign that this was his first drink.
Warren seized the opportunity. “Yeah? Five hundred bucks says we both drink a glass of vodka and I can stand on one foot longer than you. What do you say, O brownshirt Jugendmeister?” Warren poked him in the ribs with the skewer from the chicken kebab.
“No fucking way. Let’s do it.” Goering knocked Warren’s hand away.
“Right away, Führer.” Warren made a beeline for the bar, where he got one straight vodka, and one light vodka and water, no ice. He walked back and offered the vodka and water to Goering.
“Give me that one, scumbag, I know your tricks.” Goering grabbed the straight vodka. He saluted Warren with the cup, and they both chugged them empty.
“Oh, shit, why’d you go and do that?” Mike Barnes, a thin, well-dressed black man said as he watched in horror. “We’d better call the cops now and get it over with.”
“Don’t give up on him yet, Mikey. Pretty boy’s got money on the line here. Maybe he’ll be able to hold on this time.” Warren smiled.
Barnes rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Hey, I’m shick of you fuckersh making fun of me. Ohhh, fuuuck! Look at the body on that fucking bitch over there. Fuuucck! How’d you like to have her sucking on your fucking giant bone, huh? Nah, you wouldn’t like that at all!” Goering threw back his head and guffawed, his perfect, white teeth catching the light. He slapped Barnes on the shoulder.
“Hey, Dutch, I don’t think that’s a woman at all. I think that’s one of the waiters.” Barnes laughed. Warren was amazed at how much Goering got away with. Barnes acted like a buttoned-down Ivy Leaguer most of the time, like a badass gangbanger when he wanted to be cool, and a good old boy when he wanted to fit in. He accepted Goering’s racist rants in good humor, which they were, but Warren knew even he must have wanted to knock Goering’s teeth out just then.
“Yah, well, you just wish you could get the slack a good-lookin’ white guy like me gets, don’tcha?” Goering roared again and made sucking motions with his hands and lips.
“Christ, Dutchie, you sure know how to sweet-talk. Your wife like it when you talk to her like that?” Barnes handed Goering a napkin to wipe off the vodka he’d sloshed onto his sleeve.
“Fuck that bitch. What’s she going to do? She’s got her cute little hubby-wubby and his nice fat paycheck. So what if I like to get a sweet fucking piece of ass? What’s she going to do? Leave me? Take da baby-waby and go ’way? Aw, boo-hoo!” Goering mimed wiping his eyes with both hands. “Boo-hoo! All my fuckin’ dough’s in the Channel Islands. She couldn’ find it with a fuckin’ telescope! Fuck her.” He waved his hands in disgust.
“Poster boy for the American family.” Barnes smiled.
“Hey, stud, you wanna just pay me the five hundred, or you want to give it a go?
” Warren was perched on his left foot, the right one hovering six inches off the ground. His balance was perfect.
Goering scowled and tried vainly to keep his equilibrium, but he couldn’t hold it for more than a few seconds. Hament laughed and waved him off. “Save your money. You’ll probably need it to make bail later tonight.” He knew Goering would never pay on the bet anyway.
“I tell you what I wanna do.” Goering was having a little difficulty standing even on two feet.
“What’s that?” Barnes asked.
“I want to fuck that little Chinee piece of ass Combes is trying to jam.” Goering nodded to the dance floor, where Combes was dancing with Bonnie.
Warren looked over and smiled. The two were grinding slowly against each other. The cute associate and the married managing director with his first child on the way. There was nothing like the sight of true romance to gladden even the jaded heart.
thirty-four
Some blocks in Greenwich Village lend the city a vaguely small-town feel. In summer, the trees are almost as tall as the brownstones, and their droopy leaves make a dappled shade that cools the asphalt. In the winter evenings, with a coating of snow, the streetlamps form pools of light, and the smell of wood fires wafts down from the old chimneys and kindles memories of other places, with a muffled serenity that echoes with the reverberation of faded hoofbeats and an era before time began to move so quickly.
Anson Combes had ridden in a cab to such a spot, the nobly named King Street in the West Village. It was a quiet night, and the couple were slightly drunk, intoxicated more by the sexual tension than the liquor. Bonnie Chian had decided this was not going to be a mistake. Anson was a good-looking man and kept himself in excellent shape. She knew he’d recently remarried and also knew that the word was he hadn’t wanted to. His wife’s Catholicism and his position had conspired to leave him no choice when Philippa turned up pregnant.
Having a managing director in her thrall, especially an attractive and dynamic one such as Combes, couldn’t hurt. She hadn’t slept with anyone for a long time, and the fumbling come-ons from the younger men at Weldon had gotten boring. Half of them were terrified of even approaching her because of the new, fierce morality enforced by Human Resources, at least on junior employees, and the other half were intimidated by her Eurasian good looks. Combes had an arrogant self-assurance that made accepting his offer of a ride home easy. He expected her to say yes, and his kisses and caresses in the car were clearly foreplay, not entreaties.
The cab pulled to a stop in front of No. 20, a four-story, brick Federal that had been subdivided into four floor-through units. Bonnie’s was the third floor, and as she stepped into the elevator, Anson followed her and held her from behind, kissing her neck and kneading her breasts. His glasses had been pushed up to the top of his forehead, and Bonnie giggled as she removed them. He was slipping his hand under her skirt on the landing when she unlocked her front door, and she had to struggle a bit to get it closed before he pulled her toward the couch in the living room. She saw that the lock hadn’t caught, but Anson was all over her, pushing her skirt up over her hips, grasping her firm bottom in his palms, and pressing her down onto the couch with his weight.
She moved with him now, pressing up against him, opening her mouth to his kisses, helping him slide off his suit jacket. He had her skirt up and was grinding his hips into her, his erection pressing through the cloth of his suit against the slight swell at the front of her panties. She reached between them for his belt, and he lifted his weight slightly to open a path. She worked it open, then undid the clasp and zipper of his pants, ducking her hand inside the opening to stroke him. He moaned slightly and worked the buttons of her blouse open to reveal a floral bra, which he pushed aside, and covered her breasts with his lips. He used his free hand to push his pants and shorts down to his knees, then tore at her lacy underwear. She stopped him and simply pushed the covering to one side, using the same hand to curl her fingers around him, guiding him into her in a tangle of loose clothing.
Anson began pumping his hips frantically, his face a mask except for the tight grimace of lust. She was responding to him now, almost forgetting who he was and what she was doing. His pace slowed, then quickened again, and she could feel that he was close to coming. She wasn’t ready yet, but encouraged him with her moans. His breath was shorter, his eyes clenched tight. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, giving herself up to him, casting away whatever doubts she had.
From the front door, her knees were visible over the back of the couch, as was the back of Anson’s head. The intruder had not expected the door to be unlatched, and the entrance had been perfectly quiet. The figure paused for a moment, head tilted down for a look at the scene being played out below, then reached out with a long, black baton, which fired blue sparks as it touched the back of Combes’s neck. Combes went rigid, then started to shake slightly as the voltage passed through his body for two, then three, seconds. Bonnie did not notice the slight snapping sound. She felt an odd tingling, but before she could react to it, the intruder touched the baton to her knee, and the surge of electricity left her senseless before she could even open her eyes.
thirty-five
“I’m not sure I understand, Miss Chian. Let’s try to get this one more time.” Roger Wittlin was tired, pissed off, and frustrated, and McDermott gaping at her long, elegant legs wasn’t helping things any. What the hell is wrong with men, anyway? he thought, disgusted that his partner couldn’t keep his thoughts clean.
“Okay. Okay. I told you. We were on the couch, making love, and I kind of felt weird, then something hurt, and I couldn’t breathe. I think I blacked out. When I got back up, Anson was in the bedroom like … like that, and then I called you. That’s it. That’s all I remember.”
Anson Combes lay facedown in the bedroom, the back of his head crushed, evidently by a marble obelisk that lay shattered across the carpet. His blood had soaked into the rug, his naked body pale and limp in the light. A photographer was working, and two technicians were searching for fingerprints, fibers, hair, blood, anything that new forensic technology could help in turning a cipher into a suspect, or even a profile of a suspect. They seemed to be satisfied with their progress.
“You saw nothing at all, heard nothing at all? You don’t know where those marks on your neck came from?” Wittlin jabbed his finger at two small, red bruises on her throat.
“I meant what I said, Officer. The last thing I remember is making love on the couch, then some pain, then this. If I remembered anything else at all, I would tell you. God, he was my boss, for God’s sake. I can’t fucking believe this.” She was shaken, trembling, crying now, pathetic.
Wittlin patted her on the shoulder. “Hey, Wall Street’s murder, right? Let’s just be glad it was him they were after and not you. I think you got very lucky.” Wittlin remembered something his mother had told him. She said she had married a Jewish man because they almost never drank and almost as rarely cheated on their wives. So he was a half-Jewish, half-Irish cop, which had probably explained why he’d taken to it and also done well on the police exams. Which reminded him. “And I’m not an officer, I’m a detective.”
“Hey, Rog, we got some good shit in here,” Stuart Jermon called from the bedroom. Wittlin got up and left the slim woman alone with her thoughts and a cup of Greek-diner coffee, picking his way into the bedroom.
“Where the fuck is the meat wagon? And tell those idiots downstairs to lay off the fucking lights, already. Let some people around here get some sleep.” Seven patrol cars were on the street, all pulled up at odd angles, half on the sidewalk, although plenty of spots to park normally had been open. Four detectives were canvassing the building for witnesses, and forensics men were examining the stairs, halls, and elevators. The uniformed guys were hanging out on the street, their potbellies spilling over their belts, several slurping coffee and chewing on the doughnuts a rookie had picked up at the all-night grocery around the corner.
“What is it?” Wittlin looked up at the tall black man in a pair of cotton coveralls.
“Well”—Jermon held up a small, clear plastic envelope—“we’ve got some hair here. And a partial footprint there. He was wearing gloves for sure, and probably some kind of cap. He just walked in. The girl said the door didn’t close. Bad luck. No struggle to speak of. I’m not the doc, but that looks like at least two whacks on his head over there, so I’d guess one smack with some kind of club while he’s on the lady. It doesn’t put him out, but gets his attention. Stumbles in here while our boy tries to choke her lights out, hence the marks on her lovely neck. He sees lover boy trying for the phone and finishes the job right there with that stone thing. Literally bashed his brains out. He nails the wallet and the purse, runs a few drawers”—Jermon pointed to some lightly ransacked drawers—“then bags it. This was not too big a boy. Took him a couple of good shots to put lover boy down for good, and he didn’t go back to finish her. Probably thought he’d done ’em both, though, since she was out cold.”
“Makes sense. What do you think we’ll get from the samples?” Wittlin was pacing the room, glancing back and forth.
“Africanus Americanus. Shoe size maybe ten and a half. Probably Pumas from the sole grid. Done a little B and E before, pretty careful. The hair I got from the sofa. Maybe bending over to straddle our girl. Natural curl. Definitely belongs to neither of these two here straight-hairs. The lab tests will tell us more, but my money’s down.”
“So, we got a black male, probably five feet eight inches plus, light to medium build from the shoe size, record of B and E, not afraid to mix it up and add assault or homicide to the tab. That about right?” Wittlin was relieved to see the ME’s personnel show up, despite the delay.