That was something I wanted your opinion on. But if you say he’s kept his hands off you …
I swear it, McCluskey. He gets sad sometimes. He doesn’t do angry.
Right, the kind that bottles it up and then boom. McCluskey slaps his big hands down on the bar, Hannah flinching, looking at the printout of her husband again. Sorry, Aitch, says McCluskey. Hey, do me a favor will you? Look over this list. McCluskey pulls a second piece of paper from beneath the Mail. These are all the people who made reservations at the restaurant that lunchtime, he says.
Alvarez, Bachman, Denby … Kim, McManus, Nathan … Samson, Suarez, Villanova …
No, nothing, she says.
McCluskey rubs at his thin white covering of hair. Aitch, I gotta let you make the call, he says. You want me to talk to him? Let me talk to him. I don’t have to bring him in.
I’ll talk to him, Mike.
Yeah, I was worried you’d say that. But I gotta get involved at some point, unless you can swear to me nothing else will ever happen.
She looks down at her husband again, as if this time it might not be him. Right, she says, distractedly, thinking about whether this might somehow be her fault.
Goddam, this makes me nervous as hell, says McCluskey, his leg jiggling against the bar. Aitch, you’re the person I’m most worried about right now, he says. If you talk to him, you gotta be careful how you put the questions.
I know how to talk to people, Mike. I know how to talk to my husband.
Yeah, but you have to make him think like talking’s his idea, like he wants to open up to you.
Mike, I know how to do this.
Right, right. But whatever you do, you don’t wanna corner the guy, Aitch.
I do this for a living too, Mike.
I know, I know. But handling a witness is a whole different ball game from handling a suspect.
He’s not a suspect, McCluskey, he’s my husband.
Not a suspect? Dammit, Aitch, I never won any gold stars for sensitivity, but there were other images I could’ve shown you.
Mike, you know I appreciate this, right?
Sure, this whole thing makes me nervous, says McCluskey, rubbing the back of his neck. You know, if I could just have one … Georgie, you got any of that green Guinness left over from last Paddy’s Day?
Georgie leans on the bar in front of them. It’s just food coloring, Mikey, I can knock some up for you, he says, whipping the bar with his towel as he makes to move.
Nah, says McCluskey, ignore me, I’m like that Greek guy tied to a mast.
Odysseus, says Hannah.
Right, I’m like Odysseus, Georgie, no matter how much I ask you for a real drink, you gotta ignore me, OK? I made a promise to Lindy. Here’s to promises, he says, raising his glass, and then, after swallowing a sip of seltzer, McCluskey makes a face like a kid after cough syrup. Jesus, Aitch, he says, you know the only thing in the world worse than fizzy water is green smoothies. You know why? Every time I get handed one I can’t help thinking of that joke—What’s green and goes round at a hundred miles an hour?
Go on then, McCluskey, if you have to.
Kermit in a blender. I’m tellin you, Aitch, frog purée would taste a thousand times better.
Georgie taps the bar. That reminds me of one—what’s green and smells of pork?
Hey, Georgie, not now, says McCluskey, his voice turning sharp. Can’t you see we’re trying to have a serious conversation? He raises his hands in confused disbelief as Georgie skulks away, and then McCluskey turns back to Hannah. Look, Aitch, he says, Patrick’s head’s gotta be going in ten different directions at once right now. Let’s just let him calm down, you go home when you normally go home. McCluskey takes Hannah’s hand and stares hard at her. Aitch, you call me and tell me when you’re getting there, right? I’ll be in the lobby and you lock yourself in the goddam bathroom and call me if he even breathes at you funny, you hear?
She squeezes his hand. I love you, Mike.
Terrific. And you know what I love? says McCluskey. Three words, retirement full pension, he says, using a hand to block out the words in the air. Because if anyone finds out I knew who this was and kept quiet … So you gotta promise me, Hannah, this is the right way to play this.
On my soul, says Hannah, pulling her hand away, placing it over her chest.
McCluskey gives her a dubious look before dropping some notes on the bar. Hey, Georgie, he says, sorry about cutting you off like that, apparently I’m hangry.
No problem, big fella, says Georgie.
Come on, Aitch, says McCluskey. I’ll hail you a cab.
As they climb from their barstools, Hannah puts her hand to her mouth and stage-whispers it over the bar. Kermit’s finger, she says, Georgie seeing her off with a wink.
* * *
SHE WISHES THE CAB COULD drive around forever, Hannah like a child in the backseat being soothed by the motion, nodding off perhaps, the way she always did when returning home from family trips and vacations as a young girl, and if she could only fall asleep today might she wake up to discover that none of this was real? The taxi lurches urgently downtown, the concrete city speeding by, not unlike her thoughts, nothing settling in one place, nothing that can quite be grasped or held on to, her husband brandishing a knife, the evidence clear, but also making no sense at all. And she wishes they could just keep driving round and round in circles, and when she has looped past the same thought a fifth or seventh or thirteenth time, maybe she could pluck it from the crowded sidewalk, maybe she could hear its words clearly, this is what it means, Hannah, and this is what you have to do. And then they hit a red light, the taxicab coming to a halt alongside Union Square, and if they pulled forward just another few feet she would be able to see the exact spot where they first kissed, five years ago, she and Patch, and before their lips touched she already knew he was the one, the one she felt safest with, the one who would give purpose and direction to her future, and what does all of this mean right now? That she was wrong?
Moving again, Broadway, movie theater, bookstore, McCluskey, Patch, The Shack, but how can she think of work at a time like this? And soon, back at her desk, all she can concentrate on is the waiting, pretending to work until the moment when she will go home, Hannah carrying something too huge in her chest, who, what, when, where, she has all these pieces, her husband, a knife, this lunchtime, a hotel, which means there is only one more thing she needs for the story, and she can hear herself asking it over and over.
Why?
* * *
SITTING ON A PADDED BENCH with his newspaper, McCluskey nods at her from behind its pages as Hannah crosses the lobby, steps into the elevator, and then, too distracted to find keys in her bag, rings the doorbell when she reaches their apartment.
When Patch opens the door, she pauses, as if waiting to be invited in, her husband giving her a look as if she is the one behaving oddly, the sadness that recently has been worrying away at his eyes still there, but nothing more she can detect, nothing new, he kisses her cheek.
Is anything wrong? he says.
No, of course not, she says, shaking her head as if coming out of a work fog, and then stepping inside.
Sorry, he says, it’s just pretty basic pasta for dinner tonight. I didn’t get around to buying anything special. I’ll go get everything started, he says, smiling weakly, turning around, and then, with a faint limp, heading into the kitchen.
Hannah touches her lips when she sees the limp. Why did she need confirmation? Hadn’t the photo been conclusive enough? And then she thinks, How did he seem? Normal? But at some point in the last year, Hannah might have lost her sense of his normal.
The apartment looks neat and clean, always neat and clean when she returns home, maybe this is how Patch hides his secrets, concealed beneath order, buried in tidiness, she imagines him making a mess of the place every day, the evidence of his hidden life strewn across the room, and then scrupulously packing everything away at night, just before she comes home.
Hann
ah moves through the orderly space and steps into the bedroom where she takes off her shoes, pulls her sweater over her head, and thinks, I don’t know him at all. Have I ever known him at all?
After a minute, Patch comes to the bedroom door, rubbing his hands on a dish towel. Any crimes of the century I should know about? he asks, Hannah looking at the thigh of his pants as if expecting to see blood. But of course he is wearing a different pair from the ones she saw on McCluskey’s piece of paper.
What’s that? Sorry, what type of pasta did you say you were making?
Just some spaghetti, he says, spaghetti and red sauce, ready in ten. Patrick drapes the dish towel over his shoulder and heads back to the kitchen.
She takes out her phone and thumbs out a message.
* * *
SHE SITS AT THE DINNER table, waiting for him to come out of the kitchen, wondering how to speak to him, wondering whether to tell him that she once did something terrible too, perhaps she should know how he feels, but she has no idea.
Patrick comes into the room, places two bowls on the table, kisses the top of her head, and picks up the Parmesan, grating it over her food, stopping when she says thank you, touching his leg softly, feeling something through the fabric, the edge of a bandage.
So tell me what you got up to today, she says.
The usual, he says, grating cheese over his own bowl, sitting down.
I think I lost track of what the usual is, she says.
He picks up his fork, puts it down again.
What is it, Patch?
I don’t know, he says, I feel like I’m running out of words, Hannah. What could I tell you? You come home and you’ve been to a murder scene, or you know the inside details of the latest robbery that’s all over the news, or you can tell me what the police are saying off the record about a drug bust on Wall Street. Those are stories, Hannah, those are real talking points, things the world finds genuinely interesting. Me? I could tell you about my latest trip to the laundry room—two loads, Hannah, normal and delicates. A two-load day, Patch? Fascinating. Or I could talk to you about having the same conversations I always have with our neighbors in the elevator—the weather, and here’s your headline, IT’S STILL HOT—or that the grocery store was inconveniently out of blueberries. Really? No blueberries, hold the front page. So excuse me for saying nothing about nothing. Why don’t you just do all the talking for both of us, Hannah? he says, out of breath when he finishes, as if he has returned from a run.
Did something happen, Patch? she says to him. What’s wrong?
No, Hannah, nothing ever happens, that’s what I’m trying to tell you, nothing happens.
And there it is, she sees it in his eyes, the crack in her husband’s look, the concealment of something with a neat truth, but whatever you do, you don’t wanna corner the guy, Aitch.
Do you remember how much we used to talk? she says.
Yes, I remember, he says, his body sinking.
We’d talk about books, or thoughts, what made us happy, what made us angry. But I think I lost track of you somewhere, Patch. So you don’t have to tell me about your days, you can say anything you want to me, you know that, right?
He covers his eyes with one hand, drops his fork from the other, and she can see that he’s crying, she takes his empty hand in hers, Patrick squeezing it, but still keeping his hand over his face until the tears have slowed enough to be wiped away. And finally, after a few gasps and sniffs, he manages to talk. I’m sorry, Hannah, it’s just, I don’t know, I think I’m unwinding, he says. And I don’t think anything can help me, or anyone. And I’m sorry, I don’t want to unwind. I don’t want to, I’m sorry.
She stands up and holds his head to her belly. Please talk to me, she says. Patch, please let me know what’s happening. I haven’t been very good, but I’m going to be better. Please, if you let me inside …
I just want it to be over, he says.
Want what to be over?
I don’t know. Nothing.
Patch, you’re scaring me.
No, it’s all right. I’m going to tell you everything, I promise.
I want you to, please, she says, rubbing his head.
I will, Hannah, I promise. But not tonight, not like this. Is that OK?
OK. But when?
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I promise.
And you’ll tell me everything, everything you’re feeling? Everything that’s going on in your life?
Everything, he says, I promise, Hannah. But tonight can we just drink wine and watch something crappy on TV, and you can make jokes about it, and I’ll fall asleep on the sofa. He pulls his head from her belly and looks up at her.
I’d like that, says Hannah, sitting back down. Apart from the last part. You always refuse to admit you were ever asleep when I wake you up thirty minutes after you start snoring.
You never have any evidence, he says.
I’m going to get you on video one day, she says.
And Patrick doesn’t seem to notice Hannah’s small catch of breath as she realizes what she’s just said. Well, he says, until then I remain innocent of all charges.
She glances down at the table.
How about I make something special for dinner, tomorrow? says Patrick. And then we can sit down and properly talk.
Good, she says, picking up her fork, good, something special.
I’ll get up early and go buy what I need, he says.
Great, she says, that’s really great. Hannah sinks her fork down into the bowl of pasta. And Patch? she says.
Yes?
Don’t forget the honey, sweetheart.
* * *
SHE TAPS OUT ANOTHER MESSAGE after dinner, but McCluskey refuses to go home, so when Patrick falls asleep on the couch, she heads to the bathroom, switches on her electric toothbrush, sets it on a shelf by the door, and then turns on the faucet before making the call.
Still alive then, Aitch.
What, you think he was going to bake me into a pie?
It sounds like he’s sawing you up into pieces right now. What the hell is that?
Toothbrush.
You got a lawn mower engine in that thing?
Don’t think of grass, McCluskey, it’ll only make you hangry.
Fuckin A, Aitch. Anyway, what’s the climate like up there?
We’re going to talk tomorrow, he promised me.
Right. When?
After dinner.
Great. Another night in your lobby? And how is he?
He’s sad.
Sad? Or batshit fuckin dangerous?
Just sad. Very, very sad.
Gotcha. Sorry, Aitch.
Go back to Lindy now, McCluskey. There’s nothing to worry about here.
Right. Sure.
You’re not going to sleep outside in your car.
Nah, I’m getting too old for the Homicide Hilton.
Just think of all those full-pension retirement cruises.
I spew chunks even looking at pictures of boats. Listen, Hannah. Tomorrow, I want you to send me a message every hour, you got that?
Yes, sir.
I want to know where you are, what you’re doing, and how Paddy McKnife-Edge is behaving himself.
Yes, sir.
Because if for any reason I don’t hear from you, I’m showing up with my gun in my hand, you understand?
Understood, sir.
OK, then. Stay safe, Hannah.
Permission to go to bed, sir.
Good night, Aitch.
Sleep tight, Mike.
* * *
HANNAH’S BODY FORMS TWO SILENT curves beneath the covers.
He gets up and dresses with barely a sound and yet as he is tiptoeing out of the room she stirs. Patch? she calls out. Patch, where are you going?
To the market, he says, something special for dinner tonight. Remember?
Right, she says, sleepily. And then we were going to talk about everything.
That’s right.
Tonight, she says, str
etching and rolling over.
Yes, tonight, he says.
As he steps out of the bedroom she calls out again, Oh, and Patch? Patch, don’t forget the … make sure to buy some … And then she sighs. Never mind, she says. Never mind, I don’t remember.
* * *
THE SUBWAY CAR IS ALMOST empty, rattling through tunnel-dark, click clack click, metallic sounds filling the vacant space.
Patrick sits on the edge of the bench, wearing a backpack, wiping the sleep from his eyes. So they are in it together, he thinks, Matthew and Trevino conspiring.
And at least this makes sense. Who should I let go? You or Clark?
Don Trevino’s question had been a trap all along. And now Patrick understands why. Matthew is trying to get to Hannah through him, it’s the only thing that makes sense.
Not if I get to you first, Matthew, he thinks.
The doors open onto Canal and soon he is climbing the stairs, up into the early sunlight of an August morning, the air already filling up with heat, Patrick heading toward an address he has memorized.
When he gets there, the building looks like an old factory or warehouse. Iron-framed, six floors, the sky hazy with papery cloud. He presses the buzzer and waits for almost a minute, presses the buzzer again. And soon Patrick hears the sound of a chain spooling, a window sliding. He steps back to the curb, looks up and sees a man in his twenties with dark cropped hair squinting at him through the bars of the third-floor fire escape. The man calls down to him, If it’s a package, I’ll buzz you in and you can dump it in the elevator, right?
I’m looking for Matthew … Matthew Denby, says Patrick.
Sorry, no one by that name here, the man calls down, Patrick noticing an accent, like one of those British Shakespeareans who play all the bad guys in the movies. The dark-haired man begins to retreat back inside the window.
Wait, says Patrick, Matthew Denby does live at this address, right? From a pocket he pulls out a business card and waves it, the card Matthew handed him at Le Crainois.
Oh, Christ, says the man, glancing up and down the empty sidewalk. Listen, love, he hisses angrily, I really don’t give a shit which seedy little khazi you blew ’im in. It didn’t mean a thing, OK? He’s not fucking interested.
I’m sorry, but I don’t know what any of that means.
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