Unknown Remains

by Peter Leonard

  Jack fell asleep and woke up at 5:00 AM. The loft was dark. He got dressed in clothes that were too small and a Yankees cap he adjusted to fit his head, took the elevator down to the lobby, which was again deserted, and went outside. He walked down the empty street, discarding pieces of his driver’s license and credit cards in the sewer drain. Jack McCann no longer existed.

  He walked for a while, a faint smell of burning chemicals in the air. He stopped in an all-night diner, sat at the counter, ordered scrambled eggs and sausage links, and read the New York Times. The headline on the front page read U.S. ATTACKED. HIJACKED JETS DESTROY TWIN TOWERS AND HIT PENTAGON IN DAY OF TERROR.

  Jack read the article. Everyone thought Al-Qaeda was behind the attacks. Osama bin Laden denied involvement. He finished eating and went back to the loft.

  SEVENTEEN

  For the next ten days, Jack kept a low profile, stayed inside until after midnight, trying to recover. His lungs were filled with smoke and dust, and he was weak and lethargic and slept a lot.

  He felt safe in the apartment—at least for the time being—knowing that Chuck’s only relative was an elderly aunt who lived in Denver. She had left a message on day one: “Charley, honey, it’s Aunt Mary. I am worried sick about you. Please call and tell me you’re okay.”

  Occasionally the girl across the hall would come over and stand at the door, knocking lightly. Jack would stare at her through the peephole. She always looked sad, and he wondered if Chuck had had something going with her.

  And one morning, a balding, energetic, dark-haired man who identified himself as Dick Marcey, the super, showed up and pounded on the door. But other than that, it had been quiet.

  On the morning of the twenty-second, he went to a pay phone down the street and called Sculley, his best friend since grade school.

  “Sculley, it’s Jack.”

  Sculley was silent for several beats. “Tell me what the hell’s going on, will you? Tell me you’re in the hospital, you’ve been dazed or unconscious, but now you’re okay.”

  “I wish I could go back, change things, do it over, but I can’t.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sculley paused. “I had breakfast with your wife this morning.”

  “How is she?” He pictured Diane making coffee before he left for the train station, hair pulled back, wearing her horn rims.

  “She wanted to know if you were seeing someone before you were killed.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “Vicki showed up at your funeral and the reception at the club. Vicki walks into a room, she gets noticed, you may recall. Diane didn’t know her, so she thought you must have. Diane saw me talking to her.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told her Vicki was probably somebody’s wife or girlfriend.”

  “She believe you?”

  “Are you kidding? Diane asked me her name, and how long you’d been seeing her.”

  “I said, ‘Why do you want to think anything bad about Jack?’ I told Diane you loved her.” Sculley paused again. “But somehow she knew about Vicki. Maybe Diane smelled her on you when you came home one night. Maybe she followed you.”

  “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “Diane wanted to know how you met. I told her Vicki was a waitress, and of course, Diane wanted to know where she worked.” Sculley took a breath. “She’s pissed off. Diane had a lofty opinion of you that’s been seriously compromised. You cheated on her and cleaned out your savings. She wants to know why. Can you blame her?”

  “She’s got the house, and she’ll get the life insurance,” Jack said, trying to make himself feel better. “Diane’s tough; she’ll get through it.”

  “That’s all you have to say?” Sculley paused. “Diane said someone was in the house when she got back from your funeral, a scary-looking guy waiting for her. The guy said you had borrowed a lot of money from some company called San Marino Equity. The guy showed her a contract with your signature and hers.”

  Jack pictured Ruben Diaz, surprised, didn’t think they’d go after Diane. He had never heard of San Marino and had never signed a contract. Neither, of course, had she. It was all bullshit, and they were going for what they could get.

  “You still there?” Sculley said.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Did he threaten her?”

  “I don’t know. What if he did? What are you going to do about it?”

  Jack felt helpless and stupid. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. He’d disappear, start his new life, and Frankie Cheech would have to eat the debt.

  “You see what’s going on here?” Sculley said. “You left Diane in a tough position. You didn’t pay whatever you owe, so they’re going to get it from her.”

  “Once they realize she doesn’t have any money, they’ll leave her alone.”

  “So you do owe money?”

  “Tell her to call the police.”

  “That gets you off the hook, huh? Now you can put it out of your mind, wipe your hands clean, is that it?”

  “I’m in trouble.”

  “Tell me you got hit on the head. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  Jack didn’t say anything.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t want to go into it right now. I’ll tell you this: you’re the only one I can trust.”

  “Jack, this doesn’t sound like you.” Sculley paused. “You want help, tell me what the hell’s going on. Who’s after you?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you.”

  “What about Diane? She’s in bad shape—can you imagine?”

  “She’ll be better off, believe me.” Jack took a breath. “There’s no other way out of this.”

  A woman walked up to the phone booth, stood close, and tapped on the plastic door panel. “I have an emergency. I have to use the phone.”

  This was the last thing Jack wanted to do, call attention to himself. He put his hand over the phone. “Just a minute.”

  Sculley, breathing through his nose, said, “What do you need?”

  “Nothing.”

  The woman banged on the phone booth door and gave him the finger. “I have an emergency. Get off the fucking phone.”

  “What was that?”

  “Some angry woman. I’ve got to go. I’ll get back to you.”

  He hung up and stepped out of the phone booth as the woman brushed past him and said, “Asshole.”

  At a J. Crew on West Broadway, he bought a new wardrobe: shirts, khakis, a jacket, and paid for everything with Chuck Bellmore’s Visa. On the street with two shopping bags, he hailed a cab and had the driver go by Vicki’s apartment. Cobb and Ruben were sitting in a dark sedan parked on her street.

  Jack directed the cab driver to Tribeca and took his new purchases back to Chuck’s loft, keeping the brim of the cap low over his eyes, carrying the shopping bags as he passed people in the lobby, getting in the elevator.

  He rode up to the top floor with a girl in a fedora. She had a silver ring pierced through one of her nostrils and wore a skirt with black tights and high-top tennis shoes. Jack could see her looking at him.

  “You didn’t work at the Trade Center, did you?”

  He glanced at the floor and said no.

  “You believe that? Wasn’t it the worst thing that’s ever happened?”

  Jack nodded, holding the shopping bags.

  “At first I thought you were Charlie. He wears a cap like that.” She paused. “You’re new here, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you around.”

  “Just visiting.” He was hoping she wouldn’t ask who, and she didn’t.

  “My neighbor worked in Tower One. I don’t know what happened to him.”

  The bell rang, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. Jack waited for the girl to step out and watched her walk down the hall, hanging back, taking his time. She slowed down and fumbled with her hand in her purse, found the key and opened the door
to the loft across the hall from Chuck’s.

  Jack went in the apartment, put his bags on the kitchen table, opened a beer, and guzzled a third of it. He sat and cut the tags off his new clothes. There was a knock on the door. He crossed the main room and looked through the peephole. It was the girl from the elevator, her face without the hat, distorted in the wide-angle opening, purple hair tied in a ponytail. She knocked again and then turned and went back across the hall.

  At ten the next morning, there was a knock on the door. Jack assumed it was the girl. He looked through the peephole at the super and an elderly woman who looked vaguely familiar.

  “Mr. Bellmore, it’s Dick Marcey. Your aunt’s here from Denver.”

  It now occurred to Jack, the woman looked familiar ’cause there were photos of her on a bookcase in Chuck’s living room.

  “Charlie, it’s Aunt Mary. Are you in there? Open the door.”

  The super knocked again. “Mr. Bellmore, can you hear me? Your family’s worried about you.” He heard a key slide in the lock and saw the handle turn. But there were deadbolts top and bottom, and the door held fast. Now he could hear them walking down the hall to the elevators.

  He opened the door and looked toward the elevators. The hall was empty. He grabbed his gear and stepped out.

  “Where’s Charlie?” The girl was standing in her doorway.

  “He died when the first plane hit. The ceiling came down on him.”

  “Who’re you?”

  “A friend. I worked with him.”

  “Charlie and I were lovers. I miss him.” The girl glanced toward the elevators. “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

  Jack looked at her but didn’t say anything.

  “They’re coming back with a locksmith. Thought you’d want to know.”

  Jack took the stairs down to the lobby, pulled the Yankees cap lower over his eyes, and stepped outside. A cab took him to the hotel. Jack checked in with Chuck Bellmore’s American Express card and went to his room. He figured he could use Chuck’s credit cards a while longer. What he really needed was a new identity. He sat on the bed and phoned Sculley at his office. “I need an ID. Know anyone does that kind of thing, passport, driver’s license?”

  “I’m a tax attorney. Why would I know someone that does that?”

  “Call your friend the prosecutor, find out, will you?”

  “What’s the charge for helping someone fake their own death?”

  “You can ask him that too.”

  “Where are you going to go?”

  He hadn’t figured that out yet.

  EIGHTEEN

  When it was dark, Jack walked out of the hotel, hailed a cab, and took it to the Village. There was an alley behind the building where Vicki lived. He moved past the sushi restaurant and heard voices and the loud clamor in the kitchen. The rear door to the apartment building was locked. He looked up five stories, lights from apartments illuminating the alley.

  He climbed onto a dumpster, grabbed the bottom rung of the fire escape, and pulled it down. He went up to the second floor and moved along the building on the metal walkway to Vicki’s apartment, looked in the window at the tiny kitchen, and saw Vick, her back to him, pouring a glass of wine. He stared at her dark hair hanging over her shoulders and at the hard roundness of her ass in tight jeans, taking his time, enjoying the moment. He didn’t think he’d ever see her again. She turned, gripping the neck of the bottle, opened the refrigerator, and put it in. He watched her, feeling his heart race.

  And when he couldn’t wait any longer, Jack tapped on the glass. Vicki came over, made a visor with her hand to block the light. She put her hand over her chest and stared at him. It felt like a long time before she turned the lock and lifted the window. He got down on his butt and shimmied through the opening feet first, and when he was standing in the room, she came to him and he held her, neither of them saying a word. He could feel the soft curve of her breasts and her heart beating.

  After a time, Vicki put her hands on his shoulders and pressed her lips to his, but the kiss had no feeling, no emotion. Her eyes held on him. “They’ve been here. They’re looking for you. I told them you went down with the tower ’cause that’s what I believed.” Vicki paused. “You said you had the money. Why don’t you give it to them? Let’s end it and get them out of our lives.” Vicki walked over, picked up her wineglass, and took a drink.

  She was different than he’d ever seen her, distant, preoccupied, and now he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been in it for the money from the beginning.

  “Were you really in debt? Or was the whole thing a performance?” She wouldn’t look at him. “You were good, I’ll tell you that. You had me convinced.” Jack felt like a fool. “Is that the way it was?”

  Vicki looked at him and said, “No. I was in trouble and I still am. You disappeared, but the debt didn’t. Jack, come on, where’s the money?” She was frantic now.

  There was a knock on the door. Vicki said, “Go in the bedroom and don’t make a sound.”

  “Who is it, you got someone new already?”

  Jack stood in the dark, the bedroom door cracked open an inch or so. He didn’t trust her and was glad he didn’t mention the money.

  Vicki was at the front door, looking through the peephole. She unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. A dark-haired guy in a suit came in and closed the door. What struck Jack as odd, he was wearing gloves. The guy asked Vicki something, and she shook her head. He punched her in the face, and she went down on the Oriental rug. The sudden unexpectedness of it stunned him. She struggled, getting up on all fours, and now she sat up unsteady, her back to the guy, legs bent under her. He pulled a silenced semiautomatic from his belt, aimed it at the back of Vicki’s head, and shot her from a couple feet away, spraying the wall with blood and brain.

  Jack shifted his weight and leaned against the door. It made contact with the jamb but didn’t close all the way. The shooter glanced at the bedroom and started toward him. Jack pushed the door all the way and locked it. He was on the catwalk when he heard wood splinter and saw the shooter come in the room waving the gun. The shooter fired two shots that punched holes in the glass.

  Jack ran along the catwalk to the ladder, looked over his shoulder and saw the shooter climbing out the bedroom window, aiming the gun. Jack jumped to the fire escape ladder and started down, sliding with his shoes on the outside of the rails. He looked up from the alley floor as a shot pinged off the concrete next to him. The alley was dark. He ran in the shadow of the building wall, rounds hitting next to him, behind him, and over his head. He came to Bleecker Street, turned right, and saw a cab, signaled the driver and got in, picturing the gunshot that ended Vicki’s life and feeling guilty he didn’t do something. But what the hell could he have done?

  The shooter didn’t see his face, but could describe him. The Italians, he figured, had wanted to believe he walked away from the Trade Center, and now they would know for sure.

  Jack went back to the hotel and sat in the bar, too revved up to sleep, couldn’t get the image of Vicki out of his mind. He thought about going to the police, turning himself in, but what good would that do? He’d go to jail, and Vicki would still be dead.

  “Maker’s and soda,” Jack said when the bartender approached. Jack watched him make the drink and set it on the bar in front of him on a red cocktail napkin.

  The bartender said, “Want to see a menu?”

  Jack shook his head, took a sip, and tasted the heavy strength of bourbon. He pictured Vicki walking through Ulysses that evening about four months ago, every eye in the bar on her, as she stopped at his table.

  “Looking for someone?” he had said.

  “Not really.”

  “What’re you drinking?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What would you like?”

  “A cosmo up.”

  Jack signaled the waiter, ordered the cocktail for her and another whiskey for himself. He could see guys staring at her. “Thi
s how it usually is?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All the attention you’re getting.”

  She didn’t answer, put her shoulder bag on the table.

  “I’m Jack.” He offered his hand and she shook it, surprising him by the strength of her grip with those long, beautiful fingers and red-painted nails.

  “Vicki.”

  “You a Teamster?”

  “A pipe fitter, local 636.”

  “I had a feeling. You have that look.” Jack finished his whiskey.

  Vicki smiled. “My dad was.”

  The waiter brought their drinks. Vicki picked hers up and clinked his glass.

  “I’m an actress waiting to be discovered.”

  “What have I seen you in?”

  “The new Brooklyn Chevy Dealers spot. I’m in the showroom with my dog. I look at three different models, and then I’m standing next to the Malibu and the dog barks, and I go, ‘You like it boy?’ And to the salesman I go, ‘That’s the car for me.’” Vicki sipped her drink.

  “You pick a car ’cause your dog likes it?”

  “It’s a TV commercial. It’s supposed to be funny.” Vicki paused. “What about you, Mr. Serious? What do you do?”

  Jack smiled. “I’m a registered financial representative, a stock broker.”

  “No wonder you don’t have a sense of humor.”

  That’s how it started.

  From there they took a cab to McSorley’s, Jack’s favorite pub, and drank pints of Guinness. Jack wasn’t used to a girl keeping up with him, matching him pint for pint. Vicki was easy to talk to and a lot of fun, and she was a stunner. He wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, wasn’t planning to see her again. He was happily married.

  Jack said he had to go home. He walked her outside. “Need a ride?”

  “I only live a few blocks from here.”

  “Nice meeting you.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

  “You can do better than that, can’t you?” Vicki put her arms around him and kissed him hard, slipping him her tongue, an electrical charge going through his body. “When I’m not appearing in commercials, I work nights at Balthazar, if you know where that is.”