Psycho ebook EPUB

by John Griffin

  The hallway at his new station was clear and tidy. Solomon walked leisurely through. There were few people, and those that stood in the hallway were talking casually about what they did on the weekend. The string of offices was clearly marked with ranks and names, and the doors were all open. None of the offices were empty. No one was yelling or jostling. It was quiet and peaceful. He found the office of Captain Phillip Marks and knocked.

  Marks was inside. He waved Solomon in and then stood, and the two shook hands. “Sol, I presume?” Solomon nodded. “How was your weekend?”

  Solomon sat. “I’m not used to weekends. And I’ve been off for a month.”

  Marks sat. His hair was jet-black. He had degrees on his wall and four different certificates relating to dealing with high-stress situations. One of those was executive education under duress from Harvard. “Good month?” he asked.

  “Good month,” Solomon said.

  “Get anywhere?”

  “No. Stayed home. Recovered.”

  “Must have been tough,” Marks said, leaning back in his chair.

  Solomon’s shoulders relaxed, and he leaned back too. “I’m recovered. It wasn’t easy.”

  “So you’ve decided to join the most elite unit in the force?”

  “What?” Solomon asked. “I was transferred. Wasn’t entirely my idea.”

  “Well, there’s only four of us, you know,” Marks said, leaning forward and speaking quieter. “And we are here in the admin building. And most days, there is nothing really for us to do. We sit around like firemen waiting for a hostile situation, and then we get embedded into a SWAT or something, and out we go. I wouldn’t be anything other than a negotiator.”

  “Wasn’t my first choice,” Solomon said. “To be honest, I wanted to stay on homicide, where I was. I don’t think I’m nearly as bad off as they say.”

  “Well, this is better than a desk job. And that was the alternative.”

  “Hardly a choice. At least this is active duty.”

  “Exactly. And for the majority of cops who went through what you did, it would be a desk for life. Few have the education you’ve got, few have the aptitude, and even fewer have the experience. You were accepted into a PhD program, right?”

  “Yeah,” Solomon said. “Art History.”

  “And you did a Masters in…”

  “Criminology. Yale. Anthropology, also Yale.”

  “An Eli? A Bulldog? And that’s a lot of degrees.”

  “Got my name on a couple buildings there. Legacy kid. It’s not reflective of my own accomplishments.”

  “They don’t just hand those out.”

  Solomon laughed. “They sure as hell do. I’ve got three degrees that prove it.”

  “Fair enough,” Marks said. “I earned mine the old-fashioned way.”

  “The old-fashioned way is to buy them with graft. Earning a degree with intelligence is very nouveau riche,” Solomon said.

  “Fine. You won’t admit earning yours. But they’ve saved you from a life behind a desk, so be thankful.”

  “I’m thankful for everything my father has given me,” Solomon said. “I really am. He’s made my life exceedingly easy.”

  “He hasn’t,” Marks said. “You know as well as I do. Money doesn’t make anything easy.”

  “He didn’t give me any money,” Solomon said. “He gave me a legacy of hard work against impossible odds. He gave me an education in the harshness of real life — more valuable than the degrees he bought. He gave me a window into dark hearts, and from a very young age I’ve always known that it was easier to be bad than good, and that bad people can do terrible harm very easily. There’s nothing you or I or any number of good people in the world can do to someone who picks up a kitchen knife and stabs a person at random. Bad is easy. People expect you to be good, and when you turn that on its head and defy expectations, well, you can take people by surprise. He gave me all that, but not one red cent.”

  “I gotta ask,” Marks said. “Then what did he do with the money?”

  “He also taught me it is rude to ask other people about their money,” Solomon said.

  “I’m sorry,” Marks said. “You’re right.”

  “Just kidding,” Solomon said, laughing. “I’ll let you know what he did with the money when I find it. He was fiendishly frugal and kept everything overseas to avoid paying taxes. The IRS chased him for decades and couldn’t find it. The rest he lost in some of the larger Ponzi schemes going over the last few years. And he died younger than he thought he would, and I have no idea where the money is. He never told me.”

  “Oh,” Marks said. “Ain’t that a bitch.”

  “It ain’t a bitch,” Solomon said, “it is several hundred million bitches.”

  A month later, he had his last meal with Greg. Greg poked at his plate of hash, mixing in the poached eggs and hollandaise and taking a large forkful. “You know,” he said to Solomon, eating toast, “I’ll pay.”

  “It’s not that,” Solomon replied, sipping his coffee.

  “It’s still?” Greg said, his mouth full.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I shouldn’t be enjoying my food in front of you. I feel like an ass.”

  “Don’t. You’ve done so much.”

  “How’s Marks?”

  “Okay. A little pissed, probably. Not really putting me on any assignments. Not again. Looks like I’ll be off active duty for a while again. Has me going to a few classes. But the jumper, that was probably the end of the line of my life as a negotiator. They just haven’t told me yet.”

  “How’s your office?” Greg said. “Nap there a lot? I’ve always thought office people have to be napping all the time.”

  “It’s quiet in the admin building,” Solomon said. “No one running around. No perps anywhere to be seen. No busy cops trying to do paperwork. Just rows of quiet offices and people asking each other about their weekends.”

  “Weekends,” Greg said, his mouth full again. “I remember those from college. People still have weekends? I suppose they also have weeknights, too, and they see their kids grow up.”

  “Feels like such a waste of time considering there are murderers running around.”

  Greg shrugged and kept eating.

  “So why am I here?” Solomon said.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I haven’t told anyone.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I’m not going to.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But I gotta know. I know, you know? I know you didn’t get any of your dad’s money. And here comes a note saying that you can kill one of the people responsible for it. And, you know. I just had to know.”

  “This is exactly what Psycho wanted, you know?”

  “I know. I know it. But I gotta ask. Did you kill him for her or for you?”

  Solomon answered without hesitating. “For her.”

  “That’s almost worse,” Greg said.

  “She’s still alive,” Solomon said. “She’s not dead yet. Anything can happen.”

  “She’s not coming back.”

  “I know,” Solomon said. “But I gotta believe in miracles. Otherwise, why did I do it?”

  That same night, Solomon lay asleep in bed. The bed was king-sized. The sheets were satin. The room was large, with a sitting area with two wingback chairs upholstered in fine linen. All the furniture was antique. His phone rang. Solomon reached over from bed and picked it up, putting it to his ear. “Hello?”

  He listened for a moment and then shot up in bed. He hung up and threw on a pair of indigo blue jeans and a black tee and a pair of sandals. He rushed downstairs and past his doorman and outside, where it was snowing. He hailed a cab and asked to go to the Metropolitan Hospital.

  He entered through the emergency ward and made his way straight to Juanita’s
room. Maria was there, crying. He came in. “What did they say?”

  “The insurance has run out,” Maria said, sobbing. “They won’t keep paying because they say she’s just not coming back. But I’m not ready, Sol.”

  “Where’s the doctor?”

  “It wasn’t a doctor who told me. It was a hospital administrator. Violet something.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Solomon said, rubbing Maria’s back.

  “I’m just not ready yet, Sol. I know she’s dead, but I’m just not ready yet. I pray. I pray for a miracle every day, Sol. I pray. I just need more time. She needs more time. I’m not ready to say goodbye yet.” Maria broke off into Spanish, repeating the sign of the cross over her heart.

  Solomon went out to the nursing station and spoke with the charge nurse. “Can you ask Violet to come down?” The nurse nodded and called Violet, who appeared not long afterward.

  “Detective.” Violet said, extending her hand. “We met when Juanita was first brought in.”

  “I remember,” Solomon said. “What will it cost to keep Juanita alive for another month?”

  “Quite a bit,” Violet said. “And her insurance has only kept her alive for the last week on a compassionate care provision, for the mother and given the circumstances of Juanita’s incident.”

  “Just give me a number,” Solomon said.

  Violet looked at the chart. “Her care costs just under ten thousand dollars a day.”

  “So, three hundred thousand?” Solomon said.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” Solomon said. He took a business card from his pocket. “Call this person. Tell him Sol said to pay you the three hundred thousand.”

  Violet tilted her head and furrowed her brow. “Oh,” she said. “Okay. I’ll do so right away.”

  “Thanks,” Solomon said, turning to leave.

  “Can I ask…” Violet started. Solomon turned back. “Why?”

  “If she dies, he wins. And I … the jumper. For nothing.”

  Violet nodded. Solomon went back to the room where Maria was still sobbing, now sitting next to her daughter and holding her hand. “It will be okay,” he told her. “They decided to wait another month and see what happens.”

  Maria let her daughter’s hand go and embraced Solomon.

  Solomon did not want that girl to die. He set up a meeting with his financial advisor when the month was up and sat waiting for her in a soft blue chair. He was drinking coffee and looking out the window and up at the Empire State Building. A middle-aged woman wearing a navy pantsuit entered. She sat in the desk across from Solomon and shook hands with him before sitting. “Sol, thanks for coming.”

  “Thanks, Corinne.”

  “I don’t have good news,” Corinne said. “You’ve liquidated everything stateside.”

  “Nothing’s left?”

  “Nothing,” Corinne said, “but your monthly pay.”

  “Can I get a loan?” Solomon asked. He took his pill bottle from his pocket and swallowed a pill with his coffee.

  Corinne shook her head. “Not from me. You have nothing but this income, and it isn’t enough for what you are trying to do. The hospital called.’

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “I told them you have nothing left to give.”

  “I’ve got life insurance.”

  Corinne shuffled some papers. “You do. A policy with the force, and your policy.”

  “How much?”

  “More than enough. You know how much,” Corinne said.

  “Let’s change the beneficiaries,” Solomon said.

  Corinne stopped and stared. Solomon took the papers from her hand, went through them, and crossed, initialed and signed until he was finished, and then threw them back at her.

  He got up and left the building. He got onto the subway and exited on 86th Street. He went to the nearest apartment building and climbed the stairs to the third floor. He opened the door to the fifth apartment on the left and stood in the doorway. There was a cot on the ground, a pile of clothes, a few paintings leaned against the wall, and nothing else in the small bachelor apartment. He went to his cot and sat. He sobbed and took off his jacket, undoing his tie. He took his gun from his dresser and put it against his head, sobbed hard, and put the gun down, leaning forward on his knees. He wiped the tears from his face, put the gun back against his head, took a deep breath, convulsed, and stopped again, putting the gun down once more.

  Solomon calmed himself and picked the gun back up, putting it into his mouth. He bit down on it and tasted the steel and took it out, spat, and put it back against his head, sobbing again and putting the gun down. He vomited and then collected himself. His phone rang, and he let it go to voicemail. He breathed deeply and picked up his gun, and his phone rang again, and again he let it go to voicemail. Yet again, he took the gun and put it against his head, but his phone rang again, and he answered, perturbed. “What?” he said.

  “I’ll be right there.” He dropped his gun and left the apartment.

  Months later, Solomon sat in the room at the back of The Dog and Duck, fidgeting with his lighter. He would spin it in his fingers, flip the lid, ignite, and then close the lid. A man sat across from Solomon. He was tall and lean, dressed in a black suit with a black, buttoned shirt with all the buttons done up but no tie. Solomon called this the invisible tie look, and he hated it. The man’s shoes and belt were also black. The only color on him was the silver of his belt buckle. His face was tight and gaunt. In front of the man was a computer and a small projector. The man stared toward the door while Solomon continued to fidget nervously.

  The first to arrive was Sham. He came in dressed casually in jeans and a gray hoodie. He extended a hand to the man, who politely stayed seated and nodded. “Germs,” the man in black said. “No touching.”

  “Oh,” Sham said. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. Sol’s told us, well, nothing really. Do you even have a real name?”

  Solomon threw his hands over his face. “Sham,” he said. “Sit down.”

  The man put his hand up toward Solomon. “It’s alright, Mr. Roud.” He put his hand down and answered Sham dryly. “Of course I have a real name. But that isn’t particularly important, since you don’t need it, and since I’ll also tell you that I’m not the man you think I am. I am not the person Mr. Roud has described as the brains behind this heist. I am merely the person that person trusts to oversee these transactions on his behalf. I probably don’t have to tell you, because your imagination likely makes our employer seem so much worse than he is, but he is involved in a great many similar transactions simultaneously. It is an enterprise, not so great as you might think, but certainly greater than can be accomplished by a single person. So I am here, and there are different people like me employed throughout our employer’s enterprise, facilitating similar schemes and heists right across his sphere of influence.”

  “Oh,” Sham said, sitting. “I’m surprised you told me all that.”

  “I know.”

  “So, what do we call you?” Sham asked.

  “Nothing. I know, it is confusing, and that’s the point. We laugh at the idea that somewhere, sometime, someone has sat or will sit in front of the police trying to explain precisely who I am, and who I am compared to who my employer might be. It is a silly joke, but we abide. We do abide.”

  Reginald entered. He went to shake the man’s hand and was turned aside. As Reginald sat, he turned off his phone, and Sham did so as well. Vince came in next as the three men were still introducing themselves. He banged on the door, startling Sham, and then rushed in and sat, saying only, “Vince. I’m the asshole.”

  “Every team needs an asshole,” the man said. The team laughed.

  “So what’s the plan?” Vince asked. “I’m dying to know.”

  The man typed his password into his computer, and a
n image of a house appeared on the wall behind Vince. Vince first strained his neck to turn and look at it and then turned himself around in his seat, sitting legs open with his arms on the back of the chair. “This is 132 Coolidge Ave, Short Hills, New Jersey. Inside is a very kind, very old man.” The man proceeded to the next picture. “Here I am sitting next to him on his couch.” In the picture was the old man — white hair, relaxed white shirt, and blue jeans — and this man dressed now in a navy blue suit with a white shirt and pastel paisley tie. The two were embraced and smiling. There was a collection of paperwork in front of them, and the old man had a pen in his hand.

  “Who took the pictures?” Sham asked.

  “That is none of your concern,” the man said before continuing. “A few months ago, he contacted an associate of mine. As it turns out, the man had considerable assets that were drastically underinsured. Here, I played the role of an insurance agent. I assessed his goods and issued a policy for the goods that covered him for not less than ten million dollars.”

  “It’s a nice home — but not that nice,” Sham said.

  “It’s not for the home,” the man said, clicking to the next picture. “Arthur Delacroix was a jeweler. Here is a collection of his favorite pieces. Most are modest, and it is the sheer number of necklaces, earrings, rings, and whatnot that allowed me to value his possessions in the millions. Others,” the man advanced again to a picture of a platinum ring with a three-carat blue diamond, “are themselves worth upwards of three million.” He advanced again, quicker, going through several different pictures of closets, credenzas, and chests and the rooms they were located in. “The pieces are placed throughout the house in four safes, themselves contained within these pieces of furniture. There is a red chest in the basement. There is a dark-brown credenza in his study. There is a wall safe behind this Matisse print in his bedroom. And finally, in the middle of his living room, is an antique leather chest with a safe.”

  “Four safes, four criminals?” Reginald said.

  “I’d say you were quick, Reggie, but that was obvious and why we hired you. So instead I’ll say you’re performing as expected,” the man said, not turning from his presentation. “I have brought with me today four duffle bags. Each has a GPS sewn into the lining and is empty except for a phone. There is a red for Sol, brown for Sham, black for Reggie, and blue for Vince. It could not be simpler. At 1:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, the phone will receive two texts. First is the password for the safe to which you have been assigned. The second is where you will exchange the duffle bag for your pay.”