Unknown Remains

by Peter Leonard

  “Were you in love with him?”

  No, she wasn’t. Their relationship wasn’t like that. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “We had a good time together.”

  “What’d Jack say about me?”

  Vicki was trying to think of something that wasn’t derogatory, that wouldn’t offend her. “You were a great cook, a wonderful decorator.”

  Jack’s wife made a face. “That’s it? That’s all he said?”

  “It was more about you doing things. ‘Diane and I went to a dinner party. Diane and I went to a Yankees game. Diane and I went to an event at the Museum of Modern Art.’ Like that.”

  “How’d you meet?”

  “What difference does it make? Why don’t you let it go. Jack’s gone. It’s over.”

  “I want to know. It’s important to me.”

  “We met in a bar. We talked for a few minutes; he bought me a beer and that was it. A few weeks later, he came into the restaurant. I didn’t even remember telling him I worked there.” Actually she was kind of drunk and had written her phone number on the palm of his hand with a red marker she had gotten from the bartender.

  “And then what?”

  “A couple weeks later, he showed up at the restaurant again for lunch. I was there working an early shift, covering for a friend. I usually work nights. I waited on Jack and another guy. They were nice, had lunch, and left.” The coincidence was pure bullshit. Jack had called, knew when she was working. Vicki was uncomfortable sitting in the hot glare of Diane McCann’s gaze, apologizing for going out with a guy that didn’t seem to care about his wife. “Jack would come in regularly with clients, different groups. This went on for a while before he asked me out. I didn’t see a ring, but I asked, ‘Are you married?’”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Nothing. Shook his head.” That wasn’t true. Jack had admitted he was married right away. At the time, she didn’t know if he was conning her or not, but she liked him. He was good-looking and funny, and the way he picked up checks, he had to have money, and that’s what she needed.

  “How was London? I know he took you there in early July. Jack said it was a business conference. You stayed at Claridge’s, and Jack took you to Wimbledon. I saw him on TV, the quarter finals, and you were next to him. I didn’t realize it until right now. After that, he took you to Rome. You stayed at the Hassler, didn’t you? Sat on your balcony, looking down at the Spanish Steps. Jack takes all his girlfriends there.”

  How did she know that? Vicki decided not to say anything else, not confirm or deny. Diane McCann was looking across the deep room toward the kitchen now.

  “Nice apartment. How long have you lived here?” Diane stood up.

  “Almost a year.”

  Now Diane was moving through the apartment. Vicki followed her, wondering what she was doing. Diane stopped at the bedroom and went in. Vicki was embarrassed by the way it looked, bed unmade, clothes on the floor, like she was still in school. The closet door was open. Diane was staring at a couple of Jack’s shirts and sport coats on hangers.

  “I gave him that tie for his thirty-eighth birthday,” Diane said, pointing at a blue-striped Zegna. “Why are you keeping his clothes?”

  Vicki felt foolish. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m asking myself the same thing. Why not throw everything out?”

  “Seeing them makes me think he’s still alive. Do you want the tie?”

  “Jack withdrew forty-five thousand dollars from our account a couple weeks before he died. What did he do with the money?”

  “I have no idea, but I know he was worried. There was something hanging over his head.” She threw that out to deflect any further blame.

  “What was it?”

  “I never found out.”

  “Ever heard of San Marino Equity? Jack supposedly borrowed money from them.”

  “No, he never mentioned it.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “September tenth.”

  There was a long silence after that. Vicki said she was sorry. Diane said good-bye, and Vicki followed her to the door. The meeting was over as abruptly as it had begun.

  EIGHT

  Diane went back to the hotel, called home, and retrieved her messages. There were four: her mom, Connie May, Duane Cobb, and Mel Hoberman, who wanted her to call him ASAP. She dialed his direct line.

  “Thanks for getting back to me. Diane, we have a situation I want to talk to you about. Hang on a second, will you? I’m gonna put you on hold.”

  She waited a couple minutes listening to classical music.

  “Diane,” he said, coming back on the line. “I have Barry Zitter, our corporate counsel, here with me. I’m going to put you on speaker.”

  “Mrs. McCann, how are you today?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Apparently, there were improprieties taken with one of the accounts your husband managed,” Barry Zitter said in a nasally New York accent.

  “What does that mean?”

  Mel Hoberman said, “Jack misappropriated a client’s funds.”

  “Your husband embezzled seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars from an elderly woman who trusted Jack and had given him power of attorney,” Barry Zitter said.

  “I don’t believe it. Jack wouldn’t do that.” Although, given what she had learned since his death, as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wondered.

  “Jack’s boss, Stu Raskin, was aware of the situation and had contacted us on September tenth,” Barry Zitter said. “Stewart was going to terminate his employment on the morning of nine-eleven and contact the police.”

  Mel Hoberman said, “I’m sorry Diane.”

  Barry Zitter said, “Do you know where the money is, Mrs. McCann? Your cooperation in this matter would be extremely helpful. The sooner we recover the money, the sooner we can put all of this behind us.”

  “You think I had something to do with it?”

  “No, Diane,” Mel Hoberman said. “No one’s saying that.”

  “Take a look at my bank account, if you don’t believe me. I’ve got fifty-four hundred dollars and a pile of bills I can’t pay.”

  “I hope we don’t have to litigate,” Barry Zitter said.

  Mel Hoberman said, “Barry, come on. No one’s talking about litigation.”

  “This is unbelievable. Jack’s dead, and you’re trying to strong-arm me? I hope I don’t have to litigate.” Diane hung up the phone.

  What the hell was going on? What she had discovered about Jack in the past couple weeks didn’t make sense. She felt like she didn’t know him; she had been living with a stranger. The idea that Jack had an affair and embezzled money from one of his clients was mind-boggling. Diane was sick to her stomach thinking about it.

  She picked up the phone and tried Sculley, who worked near Wall Street not far from the hotel. He sounded surprised she was in town, surprised to hear from her. Or maybe he thought she was going to lay into him again.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got to talk to you.”

  She was at a table in the hotel bar an hour later. Sculley sat across from Diane and gave her a weak smile. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

  “Let’s say you’re a stock broker,” Diane said, “and you were going to embezzle a client’s money. How would you do it?”

  A waitress walked up to the table. Sculley ordered a Macallan’s neat. Diane ordered another glass of chardonnay.

  “What’s this all about?”

  “It’s a hypothetical situation.”

  “I’m not a broker. How would I know how to embezzle a client’s money?”

  The waitress set their drinks on the table. Sculley sipped his whiskey. “Tell me what’s going on, will you?”

  She did, not holding anything back.

  “I don’t believe it. Jack was a stand-up guy; he wouldn’t have done that.”<
br />
  “A stand-up guy with a girlfriend.”

  “That’s a little different, don’t you think?”

  “What’re you saying, it’s okay ’cause it’s not against the law? It’s all right to have a girlfriend, get a little on the side?”

  “I’m not saying that.” Sculley was flustered. He glanced at the whiskey for inspiration, took another drink. “I’m not trying to minimize what Jack did.”

  “Sculley, do you have a girlfriend?” He looked nervous. “You going to answer the question?”

  “No, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Why is your face all red?”

  “Diane, I’m sorry about Jack, but you’re way out of line.”

  Sculley was right, why was she taking it out on him? Probably because of his attitude about the whole thing. She didn’t think he’d been entirely truthful. “I met Vicki.”

  “What?”

  “Based on what you told me, I found her. It’s interesting that you couldn’t remember she worked at Balthazar, one of the most popular restaurants in the city.”

  Sculley shook his head. “What good did that do? What’re you trying to prove?”

  “Why are you protecting her?”

  Sculley didn’t say anything.

  “I wanted to see what she was like. When a girl steals your husband, you get curious.” Diane sipped the chardonnay. “You know Vicki, don’t you? You knew the whole time.”

  “Give it a rest, will you?” He finished his whiskey. “Listen, I’ve gotta run. It was good seeing you.”

  Diane checked out of the hotel, walked to the end of the block, turned the corner, and there he was, his scarred face magnified under the brightness of the streetlight. Seeing him so unexpectedly startled her.

  “You believe this?” he said. “And I was just thinking about you.”

  Did he follow her from home that morning? Was he on the same train?

  “You have the money?”

  “Yeah, right here,” she patted the side of her shoulder bag.

  He showed expression for the first time, a slight grin getting bigger, showing his front tooth, a diamond pattern on gold, sparkling under the light.

  “Want to see it?”

  He furrowed his brow, not sure what was going on. Diane reached into the bag, gripped the .380 Beretta, wanting to pull it and show this freak who he was dealing with. But now she was conscious of people moving all around her on the sidewalk. “Another time.”

  “What you mean, another time?”

  She stepped back, moving away from him, and saw a cab coming toward her, all of it happening in seconds. She put her hand up, signaling the driver. The cab stopped and she got in. “Grand Central.”

  The cab passed him standing on the street corner, looking at her through the side window. He had probably been following her all day. He was good. She hadn’t seen him till he wanted her to.

  Diane, still tense, ordered an Absolut and tonic in the bar car and found an empty seat on the crowded train, looking out the window at commuters talking and smoking on the loading platform. She sipped the drink, thinking about all that had happened and now the Heavy, whoever he was, putting pressure on her. She was exhausted, nerves frayed, her life turned upside down. She took a couple breaths trying to relax.

  The seats were configured two facing two. Her window seat faced a well-dressed guy about her age working on his computer. The woman next to her was talking on her cell phone. The seat opposite the woman was empty.

  She felt better when the train started to move, distancing herself from Little Italy and the Heavy, but also knowing she’d see him again. She thought about leaving town, going someplace, getting away for a while. But where? She’d never been any good on her own, didn’t like to eat dinner by herself, always felt self-conscious. She’d have to sell the house, which would attract attention, and she’d have to wait for a check for Jack’s life insurance.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Diane saw someone sit in the empty seat. She looked now, made eye contact with the Heavy. Instead of being afraid, she was angry, reached in her purse, gripped the Beretta and felt better. If he pursued her, she would pull the gun. If he attacked her, she would shoot him.

  He glanced at her, no expression, not giving anything away. With the bling and the distressed face, he looked out of place in the first-class car, a pit bull in an art gallery. She could see the other two commuters size him up and frown, still abiding by some unwritten class structure.

  The Heavy didn’t say a word, closed his eyes, sat motionless for a time, and then opened them, looking past her out the window at rural New York and Connecticut. When the train arrived in Darien, he stood, got off, and disappeared on the crowded platform.

  Diane looked for him as she walked to the car. The lot was full, and everyone was in a hurry, commuters moving around her, getting in their cars and driving away. Not seeing him put her more on edge than if he’d been standing in front of her. She took a circuitous route home, checking the rearview mirror to see if she was being followed. She drove past her house and parked down the street, turned off the lights, and waited. Her house was dark. Diane opened her bag, gripped the Beretta, flicked off the safety, and rested the gun in her lap. A few minutes later, a car turned down her street and stopped in front of her house, lights off. She glanced at the clock on the dash, watching the seconds tick, watching the car: ten, fifteen, twenty, and now the headlights popped on and the car was moving, coming toward her.

  Diane ducked down as it passed by, then sat up, turning her head, watching it drive to the end of the street, go right, and disappear. She slid the Beretta back into her bag, pulled into the garage, and closed the door behind her. She got out of the car and stood on the side of the garage, lawn and fence to her right, looking at the back of the house, lights on in the kitchen, though she didn’t remember leaving them on.

  She crossed the driveway to the patio, summer furniture covered with leaves, unlocked the French doors and saw the reflection of someone, a man, in the glass panes, heard the crunch of dry leaves as he came up behind her. Diane put her hand in the shoulder bag, gripped the Beretta, but didn’t take it out.

  “Mrs. McCann, it’s Duane Cobb. I hope I didn’t scare you.”

  “Why would you think that, sneaking up on me in the dark?”

  “I stopped by earlier, rang the doorbell.”

  “Well either I wasn’t home, or I didn’t want to talk to you.”

  “I saw lights on. I was worried about you. Let me be straight here, okay? Lot of people in your situation say they don’t want counseling but don’t mean it. They can’t wait to let out all the stress and anxiety, unburden themselves.”

  Diane could see how this counselor dressed as a schoolboy with his folksy, laid-back delivery could wear you down. “I don’t want to talk to you, Duane. Do you hear that? Do you understand?”

  “Couple of minutes, what do you say?”

  He wouldn’t give up, and Diane was tired. She turned the handle, pushed the door open and stepped in the breakfast room, Cobb behind her. If the Heavy showed up again Duane might come in handy.

  Cobb followed her into the kitchen, standing on the other side of the island counter. She put her purse on the counter behind her. Everything she’d been through today, she looked calm and relaxed. He’d underestimated her. They both had. She was tough: the way she’d gone looking for San Marino, the way she’d gone after the girlfriend, the way she’d handled Ruben.

  “I’m gonna have a drink, you want something?” She had her back to him, opening a cabinet, taking out a bottle of whiskey.

  “What kind is that?”

  “Bulleit rye.”

  “I’ll have a Seven and Seven.”

  “That’s a sissy drink.”

  “I don’t care for straight whiskey, never acquired a taste for it.”

  “A country boy that doesn’t like the taste of whiskey, huh? You might get kicked out of the club.” She grinned, pouring rye in a lowball glass. “
I don’t have any Seven Up. Who the hell drinks that?” She opened the freezer, reached in, grabbed a handful of ice cubes and dropped them in the glass. “Okay, what’s your second choice?”

  “Vodka and Coke.”

  She looked at him and grinned again. “Who taught you how to drink, your fairy godmother?”

  She sipped the whiskey and put it on the island counter, opened the cabinet, and took out a bottle of Stoli.

  “I hope this isn’t too strong for you.”

  Making fun of him again. A woman talking to Cobb like that would normally piss him off, but with her, he didn’t mind. She opened another cabinet, brought out a can of Coke, made his drink, and put it in front of him.

  “Tell me what’s so important you come calling nine o’clock at night. Don’t grief counselors have a life? Don’t you take time off?” She took a drink and held the whiskey in her mouth before swallowing it.

  “I’m worried about you. Last time I was here, you were definitely in denial,” Cobb said, reciting one of the seven stages of grief.

  “Well I’m not anymore. I’m now in acceptance.”

  Was she putting him on or what? “I’m pleased to hear it. That’s what we call progress.”

  She drained the whiskey and poured a little more over the ice cubes, which had shrunk to half their size.

  “But that isn’t,” Cobb said, pointing at her cocktail. “Alcohol is a crutch, an impediment that’s gonna prevent you from healing.” Jesus, that sounded good. He glanced at the vodka and Coke, wanted to pick up the glass and drink it more than anything, drain it in two swigs, but held off.

  “If you had the kind of day I had, you’d be drinking it straight and fast. It’s got nothing to do with grief.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t want to go into it right now.”

  “Better to let it out. Holding it in is gonna create more stress, more anxiety, more problems.” Jesus, he was on a roll.

  She drank her drink. “As it turns out, my husband wasn’t the man I thought he was.”

  “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “This is what I’m talking about.” Cobb held her in his gaze. “You have to purge that negative point of view and reconcile your feelings.”