“I didn’t even really want to talk to you,” I said. “I wanted to talk to Ryan. I didn’t think he’d let me in, so I buzzed you.”
“You tricked me. You said you were the police.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t think you’d let me in if you didn’t know me.”
“Or if I did know you.” She paused, thinking. “Well, so, are you okay with it?”
“With what?”
“With what I said?”
“You mean about never having seen the boyfriend’s face?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, yeah, okay by me, but I’m not the boyfriend.”
“Okay, so you’re not the boyfriend.” she said. “But you’re okay with it?”
I really didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. “Sure.”
“Then I’m going to close the door now,” she said, pulling the door closed. “Thank you very much.”
By the time the door clicked shut, I was already halfway up the first flight of stairs. Okay, she was a little bizarre, but you meet people like that in New York. I didn’t obsess about it. At the first landing, Jessica’s apartment was still draped in yellow. Another flight and I was in front of Ryan’s door. I rang the doorbell. I could hear slippers pad toward the door. “Arlene?”
“It’s me,” I said in falsetto.
Ryan opened the door in his sweats, and just stared for a moment. “How did you get in here?” he asked, finally.
“Arlene let me in.”
“You know her?”
“No.”
“Then, why...”
I was still standing at the door, with him asking me this shitload of stupid questions. “Would you mind letting me in?”
“Hell, yes,” he said, blocking the entrance. “First you tell me Sherry has woken up, when she hasn’t, then you tell the police I murdered Jessica. Yes, I do mind letting you in.” He started to close the door in my face.
“Wait!” I yelled.
The door opened a crack. “What?”
“Why did you tell the cops Sherry was afraid of me?”
“Because she was.”
“And that I had a violent temper?”
“She said you did.”
“But she couldn’t have! I don’t!”
The door opened four more inches. Behind him, on the foyer table, I could swear there was an open brown bag spilling out money. I craned my neck to see better, but Ryan blocked my way. “Shit, Henry, you told them I was the murderer!” he was saying. “Which is worse?”
I didn’t bother answering that. “And what’s this about Jessica having a boyfriend?” I asked, instead, trying to look around him.
Ryan took a step closer. “How exactly did you know Jessica, anyway?”
“I didn’t. It’s just that her murder...Sherry’s attack...I thought the two...”
He snickered. “That is just stupid, you know? The only connection I can see is....” He stopped short, making the connection.
“Well, did she?” I asked again.
“A boyfriend? She must have. I never caught a glimpse of him, but I heard them thumping around at night, laughing and shouting. Bottles in the trash the next morning. But I never saw his face. You could ask Arlene.”
I didn’t bother saying that Arlene seemed to think he was me. “You told the cops?” I asked.
“Yeah, of course. What I know, which isn’t much.” Ryan was standing on one leg, trying to scratch the other with his foot. All of a sudden, he seemed to lose patience, either with the itch or with me. “Listen, Henry,” he said. “The cops have been over and over this. There’s no way I could have done it. I was out of town on the night Jessica was killed. Now piss off!” He shut the door in my face.
For a moment I stood there, rubbing my nose, thinking. So he had an alibi for Jessica’s murder....Wait a minute.... I started banging on the door. “Yeah, but where the hell were you the night of Sherry’s attack?”
I heard the TV ramp up to 110 decibels, drowning me out. I couldn’t even think straight with that noise. Was that really money in the bag? Pay-off money? For what? I thought of going right out and calling Detective Sirken, telling her all about the bag and the money and making her see that even if Ryan had an ironclad alibi for Jessica’s murder, he sure as hell didn’t have one for the night that counted: Sherry’s attack. I was already on my feet, making for the stairs, when I realized that Sirken wasn’t on my side. I mean, just earlier that night she was peppering me with questions about my relationship with Sherry...Hell, she thought I was the criminal. No way was I ever going back to her. She’d just turn the whole thing around and blame it on me.
On the other hand, I wasn’t a total doofus. I could do a little investigating, myself. I glanced at my watch: ten o’clock; time enough for Ryan to go out if he wanted to. After all, evening was prime crime time in New York City, wasn’t it? I stamped down the staircase, just in case he could hear me through all that din, then hid in the dark cubby hole under the first floor staircase for the next twenty minutes until I heard a third-floor door slam and heavy footsteps clatter down two flights of stairs. The front door creaked open and banged shut. I waited for three minutes, then followed. Ryan was already a shadowy figure at the end of the block. I waited till he turned the corner, then, soft as I could in my air-cushioned Merrell Mesa Ventilators, ran after him.
He was fifty feet away, heading down Columbus Ave by the time I saw him again. I was thinking of hiding behind a lamppost, except that’s where the light is, so I just kept walking. I’d never done this before. Tailing someone seemed pretty straight-forward in my mind, but when you actually get to doing it, you find all sorts of obstacles you never considered. For instance, where to hide on a New York City street. Lampposts, as I said, were too light and too skinny. Mailboxes way too scarce, something I’d know if I had ever tried to mail a letter. Garbage cans can only be depended to be out front on garbage day, which is never. Ducking into brownstone stairwells might be an option on 96th, but not on Columbus, where there aren’t any brownstones.
So, I was looking for all these hiding places and not finding any, all the time getting closer and closer until suddenly I realized Ryan was just ten feet ahead of me. I stopped in my tracks, not really a good strategy either, because even in New York, at ten thirty at night, you can hear footsteps from a block away. Good thing Ryan’s cell phone rang just then. He went over and stood under a lamppost to talk, while I scurried into a dark corner. I could just make it out.
“Hey,” he said, putting the cell to his ear. “I got the...gift. Yeah, thanks.” He must have listened for half a minute before I could hear him saying, “No, no problem. Well, this Jackman is being a real pain in the neck, but I don’t think he knows anything.” Pause, then, “A real doofus, absolutely....” Another pause, and, “No one else knows, don’t worry.” Then he laughed, “And Sherry sure isn’t doing any talking.” Another laugh. I could kill that guy. Finally, he signed off and stuck it in his pocket. At the corner, he turned and walked into a stationery store. A couple of minutes later, he came out, opening a new pack of cigarettes, taking one out, tamping it, lighting it. Suddenly he turned and started coming back in my direction. I dived behind a garbage bag, the only thing that presented itself, and he sailed on past, smoking; I figured he was headed back to his apartment. Good news and bad news, I thought. He didn’t see me: that was the good news. I practically busted my knee was the bad news. All in all, though, I was pretty proud of myself.
* * *
I figured I’d take Thursday morning and go visit Vandenberg Institute on East 41st. I took the express train down to 42nd, where I ran through tunnels and down stairs, across landings in the giant rat’s nest of a subway under Time’s Square, headed for the shuttle to the East Side. Half the city’s down there; you wouldn’t believe the riptide of people. The current’s so strong, you don’t watch out, you can end up in Coney Island, where all you wanted was 59th and Lex.
A hundred and fifty comm
uters were waiting for the shuttle by the time it rolled in, in its usual lackadaisical way. A hundred and fifty New Yorkers pawing at the ground, stamping and snorting and ready to bolt onboard the moment the car opened its doors, on guard to jump into the first available seats. Me, I don’t bother. It’s only a short ride to Grand Central; and the sardine crush of people keeps you upright even if there’s nothing to hold onto.
The shuttle landed in Grand Central and, as usual, sat there futzing around on the track for five minutes. Doors still closed, grumbles and shrugs from the people inside who couldn’t get off, and the people outside who couldn’t get on. So, what can you do? Everybody waits. To a tourist, it looks like patience, but that’s a laugh; there is no such thing as patience in New York. All it is is hunkering down for the kill.
So, in a New York millisecond after the doors began to crack open, a hundred and fifty people, plus another fifty who had squeezed in at the last minute, exploded out. All together, shoulder to shoulder, more and more feet in the crack of the door as it opened. Heave ho and push your neighbor. Everybody out. Now! The crowd pushed me across the landing and up the stairs to Grand Central Station, through the station and out to the street. I stood on the corner for a minute or two, catching my breath before I started my walk east to the Vandenberg Institute.
I didn’t know exactly what I was going for. I guess I had this vague picture of me announcing who I was and being given the grand tour. It didn’t work that way. I went into the main lobby, and walked through this huge space with marble floors and marble columns, motion-detecting cameras on the walls whirring around, following anything that moved - straight up to an Armani-uniformed babe behind a marble desk.
“Yes?” she said, nose in the air.
“I’m here to see...” Here, I suddenly realized I didn’t know who I wanted to see. “...Uh, your research manager,” I finished.
“Which research manager?” the receptionist asked.
“Um, the brain research manager?”
The receptionist just sat there looking at me, like Hello? Don’t you know we have a million brain research managers here?
“Um, Ryan O’Donnell’s research manager?”
“Why?” she asked. “Do you have a claim against Mr. O’Donnell?”
“A claim?” I asked. That was something like a malpractice suit, I guessed. “No. Just some...information.”
“I see. Well, just wait over there Mr....?
“Jackman.”
“Mr. Jackman.” She pointed to a black leather and chrome grouping of couch and chairs. Damn, this was lavish for a research-for-research’s sake facility.
I walked over and sat down and waited. And waited. Cameras whirred, tracking people coming in. If they came in with a smart card around their necks, they could go on past; that is, as long as they lay their hands on a monitor that took an infrared picture of the whorls in their skin, measuring the chances out of a trillion of their not being who their card said they were. If they came in, like me, Joe Schmoe who wants to see a research manager, no smart card around their necks, they could sit down for the rest of their natural lives.
So, there I sat for two hours, enough to memorize every detail in the place. How the cameras could practically follow you around the room. How the marble tiles making up the endless marble floor made perfect fractal patterns. How several indistinguishable guys in brown suits and glasses never seemed to actually enter or leave. They just hung around the space, melting into corners, hiding in plain sight, watching, always watching. They gave me the creeps.
Every half hour I’d go back to the Miss Nose-in-the-air, telling her that I really do have some valuable information. I would be happy to give it to anyone, really. Yes, she said. Just wait over there. By 11:30, cameras whirred, following people with smart cards going the other way. I figured I was seeing the lunch crowd. I had about half an hour left. If I didn’t grab onto someone, I might as well go to lunch myself.
Three people came by just then: two men and a woman. I figured I’d try for the woman, hoping she was a soft touch, She was kind of pretty in a no-make-up, minimalist sort of way, but looked more hard edge than soft touch. Maybe this was a bad idea, I thought just before I stepped in front of her.
“Yes?” she said, stopping short, the rest of the group stepping around me and continuing across the lobby.
“I was looking for...” And I still didn’t really know who I wanted to see. “Sherry Pollack,” I blurted out. The other two in the group stopped short in front of us and turned around.
“Sherry Pollack,” the woman said. “Isn’t she...?
“She’s not here anymore,” one of the men called back.
“Really?” I said. “Well, then. Could I see her boss?”
“I think you should ask at the reception desk,” the woman answered.
“I did. She keeps telling me to wait.”
“For whom?” the woman asked.
“That’s just it. I don’t know.”
“C’mon Laura,” one of the men called. “There aren’t going to be any tables left.”
“I’ve gotta go,” Laura said, walking away from me. “Go ask the receptionist.”
So I went back for the umpteenth time to Miss Nose-in-the-air, and asked for Sherry Pollack.
“You are Mr....?
“Jackman,” I said. “I told you seven times already.”
“Just a minute,” she said. I couldn’t see what she was doing behind the desk. For all I knew, she was pressing the emergency button, and armed guards would come out any minute, grab me under the arms and haul me away. But she didn’t tell me to go back and just wait over there, so this was progress. Three minutes later, a guy in a four-button suit came out and waved me inside with his smart card. He put his hand on the monitor, then asked me to put mine on as well. It let me pass, all the while recording my hand for posterity.
Four-button escorted me down a hall and into an elevator, which wouldn’t go anywhere till he put in his smart card. We went up thirty-five floors, and the doors opened into a semicircular space bounded by this big chrome and glass wall, the words “Vandenberg Institute” etched deep into glass. Damn, this was lavish for a research-for-research’s sake facility.
Four-button led me behind the glass to a humongous door. The door, hung with a heavy brass plaque inscribed with James Q. Yielding, CEO, whirred open to an expanse of windows, a long ebony desk with a large, tan-faced, dark-suited, white-haired man sitting in back. “Sit down, Mr. Jackman,” he said, waving Four-button away, who genuflected out, the door whirring closed behind him.
“So you’re looking for Sherry Pollack?” he asked.
I nodded, my voice stuck in my throat.
“But Mr. Jackman, you must know that she’s no longer working here.”
I nodded again.
“I mean you must know because you’re her boyfriend.”
I bobbed my head a couple more times.
“You do speak, don’t you, Mr. Jackman?”
“Yes,” I squeaked.
“Okay. My time is limited. You say you have some valuable information for us?”
All this time I had been standing at attention. Mr. Yielding nodded at the chair behind me, so I sat down, down, the chair so soft I sank into it. Sunken, I could see the CEO way above me, seated like royalty. All I could do was look up at him.
“Yeah,” I said, swallowing. “It’s about Somnolux.”
“Ah, Somnolux,” he said. “What about Somnolux?”
“Well, Sherry said...”
“Yes, how is Ms. Pollack these days?”
“Not so good. She’s in a vegetative state.”
“Too bad. She was a very bright woman.”
I didn’t want to get into Sherry right now. That wasn’t what this was about. Or was it? “A while ago, Sherry told me about her theory of emergent mind....”
“Just a theory,” Mr. Yielding said.
“Well, she also said something about cases of people running amok.....�
�
He laughed out loud. “Ridiculous. Perhaps she was talking about the politician who had just come out of a drug treatment center. It wasn’t the Somnolux he was taking.”
“Well, no, she was worried about more than one case....”
“Sleepwalkers, yes I know all about it. But when you read the details, you find these people all had strong dispositions toward sleepwalking before they took Somnolux, or did not follow package directions.” He chuckled. “Is that all the valuable information you have for me?”
“No,” I said, swallowing. “There’s also one of your employees - Ryan O’Donnell.”
“Yes. I’ve heard about him. He discovered Somnolux along with Ms. Pollack. Smart boy. A real team player.”
“Well, did you know that he was trying to stop Sherry from speaking out?”
“Really? Speaking out about what?”
“About the side-effects.”
He made a dismissive sound.
“Yeah?” I said. “Well, a couple of nights after they had an argument about it, Sherry was attacked.”
“And how would you know about this argument in the first place?”
“It was in my apartment. I was there,” I said feeling more confident. “I think someone tried to kill her so she couldn’t speak out.”
Another dismissive chuckle. “And who would that be, Mr. Jackman?”
“Ryan,” I said. “And now someone’s trying to pay him off. Maybe so he wouldn’t tell who was really behind it. He had a bag of cash in his apartment the other night.”
“Really? Did he invite you into his apartment to show you this alleged bag of cash?”
“Well, no. I kind of glimpsed it from through his doorway.”
“Glimpsed it?” He laughed again. “Are you sure it was a bag of cash, Mr. Jackman? Maybe it was a bag of lettuce from the grocery?”
“I don’t think it was a bag of lettuce.”
“You don’t think it was a bag of lettuce,” he scoffed. “And, for that matter, if it were a bag of cash, how could that possibly involve the Institute?”
“I was hoping you could tell me that, Mr. Yielding,” I said, standing up.
Come Out Tonight Page 13