by Adam Hamdy
He turned away from the window and walked back across the cream-coloured marble slabs to the huge digital illustration. He drew close to the two children on the swings and wondered whether they were meant to symbolise Erin and Max.
‘It’s a brilliant piece,’ a woman’s voice came from behind him. ‘It highlights the precariousness of life.’
Wallace turned to see a young African-American woman with a warm face, bright eyes and black shoulder-length hair. She wore a smart brown trouser suit.
‘I’m Marcie, Mrs Byrne’s assistant,’ she said, offering her hand.
‘William Porter,’ Wallace replied, gently clasping it.
Marcie turned towards the illustration. ‘Two children on swings,’ she said. ‘Nothing more innocent and childlike. But all the girl has to do is let go with that one hand and she’ll slip away for ever. We want to make sure that every child has both hands on the rope.’ She paused for a few moments and studied the picture before continuing, ‘If you’ll follow me, Mrs Byrne is all set for you.’
Wallace tailed Marcie into a corridor flanked by a glass wall, which offered a view of an open-plan office and the city beyond. There were a dozen people in the spacious office, all busy at their big desks. The interior wall was lined with four more illustrations by the same artist featured in the lobby: the silhouette of a teenage girl at the top of a cliff, peering at a distant horizon; the same girl at the top of a high mountain looking at a twin-mooned starry night sky; standing on a rocky outcrop next to a high waterfall; walking in the ruins of an overgrown, once great city. Each image put the girl in an impossibly unreal, but breath-taking landscape, but unlike the image in the lobby, in each of these pictures the girl was alone.
Marcie led Wallace through her office towards an inner door on the other side of the room. Standing on the sleekly contoured desk that was set flush against the far wall was a photo of Marcie being hugged by a beamingly happy man.
‘My fiancé,’ Marcie explained, before giving a cursory knock and opening the inner door. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked, as she stood aside and allowed Wallace to enter.
‘I’m fine,’ he replied. ‘Thanks.’
Wallace stepped into a spacious office. A four-seater couch seemed small pressed against the back wall. The coffee table immediately in front of it held large, expensive books. Beyond the table were two modern high-backed armchairs that faced a huge desk, which was covered with neatly ordered rows of documents. Behind it, seated in a black leather chair, was Philicia Byrne, her head bowed and her brow crumpled in deep concentration.
‘Let me know if you need anything,’ Marcie said to her boss.
‘Thanks, Marce,’ Philicia acknowledged without looking up.
Marcie pulled the door closed behind her. Wallace looked at Philicia and questioned her fundraising techniques. In order to get the meeting, he’d presented himself as a potential donor interested in making a six-figure contribution to Canopy. He wondered whether all prospective patrons were ushered into Philicia’s presence without so much as a greeting. His research told him that she was forty-eight, but she looked younger. Long black hair tumbled around her shoulders in delicately layered waves. Her unblemished skin was subtly tanned and her cheeks had a fleshy fullness that belied her slender frame. Wallace had worked with enough models to know that if Philicia’s cheeks were the result of surgical fillers, they had been expertly and expensively done.
He looked around the office. A bookcase lined the length of the opposite wall, broken only by another door. The shelves were carefully adorned with hardbacks, curios and a few photographs. Wallace stepped forward and saw that there was a framed photograph of Erin Byrne. It was beautifully lit, and behind the girl was a distressed red background of the sort that one only finds in photographic studios. Erin had her mother’s dark hair and smooth skin. Her wide eyes exuded longing and her full lips were ever so slightly parted as though she was about to whisper a secret. Her delicately featured face exposed the familiar vulnerability of countless teenagers lost in a search for meaning. Next to the photograph of Erin was a picture of her brother Max, clad in his military dress uniform, looking every inch the brave, confident hero.
The door in the bookcase suddenly opened, startling Wallace. He stepped back to see a powerfully built man enter. The fabric of the man’s expensive suit stretched at the shoulders, across the chest and around the thighs, and Wallace sensed the rippling power of the muscles beneath. The man drew close to Wallace as he crossed the room. He was two inches taller and looked down at Wallace as he passed, his hard blue eyes overtly hostile. A crew cut and deliberate swagger suggested ex-military or police, and Wallace was suddenly on edge.
‘Jacob works for me,’ Philicia said. ‘He’ll be joining us.’
Wallace looked round to see Philicia eyeing him from across the room. She was still seated and there was no offer of a greeting. Jacob stared at Wallace as he stationed himself beside one of the armchairs.
‘Have a seat,’ Philicia instructed Wallace, and Jacob reinforced the invitation with a nod of his head.
‘You do really great work here,’ Wallace observed as he sat. He needed to get control of the situation but was unnerved by Jacob, who remained at his shoulder and eyeballed him.
‘Let’s cut the crap. We both know you’re not here to make a donation,’ Philicia said sharply, her amber eyes narrowing as she looked at Wallace with undisguised hostility. ‘What did you say your name was?’ she asked, glancing at a piece of paper. ‘William Porter?’ she continued. ‘Immigration shows a man with that name entering the United States two weeks ago. A Putnam County sheriff ran an RTCC search on that name last week.’ Wallace’s face must have betrayed his dismay, because Philicia added, ‘We make it our business to know everything about everyone who sets foot in this office. Jacob used to work for my ex-husband. He is very good at cutting through bullshit. So why don’t you tell me what you really want, before Jacob starts cutting through you?’
‘Someone tried to kill me,’ Wallace replied slowly. ‘He tried to make it look like suicide. I’ve found two suicides that I think were murders, and the last one I found, a boy called Kye Walters, had a link to your daughter. I don’t know what that link was, but if we find it, it might help us identify this killer.’
Philicia looked at Wallace in disbelief and then glanced up at Jacob. ‘You think my daughter was murdered?’
Wallace nodded.
‘I don’t know what you think you’ve found, Mr Porter, but my daughter took her own life.’ Philicia leaned forward and glared at Wallace with venomous anger. ‘Don’t ever try to contact me again. Jacob will show you out.’
Jacob took hold of Wallace’s arm and hoisted him to his feet.
‘Please, Mrs Byrne,’ Wallace pleaded, ‘I know this is hard, but you have to believe me. Someone tried to kill me, and I think that same person might have killed your daughter.’
‘How dare you!’ Philicia snapped to her feet and swept across the room to confront him. ‘How dare you say such things?’
‘I’ve seen what this man can do,’ Wallace said softly.
‘You don’t know what we’ve been through,’ Philicia snarled, her pitch oscillating wildly. ‘Don’t come in here with your lies!’
‘Please, Mrs Byrne,’ Wallace protested, ‘Maybe there was something you missed. Your husband, your son – maybe they saw something. Something tiny. It might seem insignificant.’
Philicia looked as though she might strike Wallace, but instead she turned her back on him. ‘My son is sick. He will never be the same. And my husband . . . Steven . . . can you imagine coming home to find your child dead? Can you imagine the guilt? His life’s over. He’s just going through the motions.’
Wallace watched as Philicia’s body shook with the force of her grief. He suspected her words would apply equally to herself. ‘I’m sorry, I truly am, but I need your help.’
‘If I ever see you again, I won’t hesitate to call the police,’ Philicia war
ned. ‘Get him out of here.’
Wallace didn’t resist as Jacob pulled him towards the door.
28
The Explorer was parked in an underground lot on Fifty-Fourth Street. Wallace didn’t know what an RTCC search was, but he’d been through too much to take any risks. He was certain that the diligent sheriff would also have run his licence plate, so the SUV would be tied to his William Porter identity. The car’s dead, Wallace thought as he pulled his backpack out of the trunk. So is the motel. He’d been staying in a Best Buck Motor Inn on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. It was the least salubrious of his American digs, but the manager asked no questions and the other residents were too busy shooting up or selling their bodies to concern themselves with what a crazy Englishman was doing in their squalid part of the world. Wallace left the car keys on the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut and headed for the exit.
He emerged from the parking garage and hailed a cab. When he’d been looking for somewhere to stay, a couple of places had shown up in Manhattan, but Wallace had rejected them as too grim. One of them, the Fresh City Hotel, was located by the Bowery Mission near the southern tip of the island.
‘You sure you got the right place?’ the cab driver asked.
‘I’m on a budget,’ Wallace explained as he slid along the back seat.
‘No one’s on that much of a budget,’ the cab driver observed wryly as he pulled into the slow-moving traffic.
The frozen city pulsed with life. As they drove south through Times Square, Wallace watched warmly wrapped tourists carefully pick their way along the icy sidewalks. Small groups stopped for photos in front of the huge advertising displays that had become synonymous with New York. Wallace envied every single one of the smiling fools. Under different circumstances, he knew that he would have been one of them. In Paris, Connie had gone to great lengths to pose a ridiculous photograph that appeared to show Wallace holding the Eiffel Tower in his hands. He remembered Connie’s beautiful face, smiling brightly as she showed him the preposterous image. He felt his stomach knot at the memory and tried to push it from his mind, but her face was always there, the conclusion to every thought, the punctuation to every sentence, the sharp needle at the end of every thread. At least this memory had her smiling, not covered in her own blood, aghast with horror.
The cab drove on, past Union Square and south along Broadway, skirting the eastern fringe of Greenwich Village, which was lined with traditional red and brownstone buildings that offered a sense of history lacking from the uptown monoliths. When they reached a rutted redstone on the corner of Fourth Street, the yellow cab swung left and rolled on through the slush. At the intersection with Bowery, Wallace finally became conscious of why his surroundings seemed so different; he could see the sky. The high towers of steel and glass had been replaced by small three- or four-storey buildings, and, as they headed south on Bowery, the majesty of New York vanished. A few blocks on and they were in a Chinatown that could have been located anywhere in the world – a mishmash of small buildings new and old, covered in brightly coloured signs daubed with Chinese hanzi and the odd English word.
‘Your budget awaits,’ the cab driver said as he pulled to a halt and nodded to his left.
Wallace looked across Bowery and saw an All-Nite pharmacy and a restaurant called the Fireball Kitchen. He was about to quiz the cab driver when he noticed a small sign above a doorway between the pharmacy and restaurant. The sign said Fresh City Hotel, or at least it was supposed to; the ‘F’ and the ‘C’ were missing, so it read ‘resh ity Hotel’. Wallace paid the driver and hurried across the street.
The Chinese man behind the thick Plexiglas screen hadn’t bothered to open Wallace’s passport. He’d taken three days’ rent in cash, handed Wallace a key and sent him up three flights of stairs to a room that was barely large enough for the shabby single bed that resided within. The carpet was covered in fluff, hair and dirt, and the bedclothes and drapes were stained and fraying. The small window overlooked a storage yard that was piled high with old kitchen equipment, but it was nailed shut so there was no chance of any fresh air to combat the stench of rot that permeated the room. A tiny bathroom lurked behind a plastic screen door and when Wallace turned on the light he saw a fat centipede scurry down the drain. He ignored his filthy surroundings, pulled out his iPad and sat down on the bed to begin figuring out his next move.
Wallace had to wait for a week to get a table at Jean Mata. The restaurant was located on the fortieth floor of a building on Beaver Street and the panoramic windows offered far-reaching views of Brooklyn, Bay Ridge and Staten Island. Two Michelin stars ensured that a meal for one cost almost as much as a week’s rent at the Fresh City Hotel, but the restaurant catered for the Wall Street crowd, who wouldn’t give a five-hundred-dollar lunch bill a second glance.
Wallace had discovered that Erin’s brother Max had been committed to a psychiatric hospital five months after her death. He had no idea what the brother’s mental condition might be or whether he’d be a reliable witness, so Steven Byrne was his best bet. Reaching a billionaire was no easy task. He researched Byrne, but the man’s private clubs and philanthropic endeavours offered no obvious point of access, so Wallace had staked out the Erimax building. He never actually saw Byrne arrive, but every morning shortly after eight a.m., two black Range Rovers pulled into the building garage. Privacy glass prevented Wallace from seeing the occupants, but he guessed one of them was Byrne. The Range Rovers usually left around seven p.m. Wallace had instructed a cab driver to tail them on the second night and followed them to an underground parking lot located beneath an expensive Park Avenue apartment building. On the third day he had identified his most promising opportunity. Accompanied by three bodyguards, Steven Byrne left the Erimax Building on Exchange Place and walked two blocks to have lunch at Jean Mata. When Steven did exactly the same thing on the fourth and fifth days, Wallace realised that it was a lunchtime routine. He had spent six hundred dollars on a dark grey suit, a twill shirt, a woven silk tie and brogues so that he wouldn’t look out of place when he made his reservation in person. He had taken care to be in the busy restaurant at the same time as Steven and noted that the billionaire sat alone, with two of his bodyguards positioned at an adjacent table, while the third stood at the long bar and kept an eye on the entrances.
It had been a frustrating week waiting for a table, but Wallace had spent it going over the evidence and doing his aikido drills. When the day finally came, he was so eager that he arrived at the restaurant early and had been at his table for fifteen minutes before Steven Byrne entered. The maître d’ offered an effusive flow of compliments as he showed Steven to his usual table. Next to the small, slight maître d’, Steven looked particularly tall and powerful. He was around six-one and seemed in great shape. His jet-black hair was close cut, but not shaved, and unlike his praetorians, Steven didn’t wear a suit, instead favouring a more casual look: a black jacket, a black roll-neck pullover and black jeans. As he drew closer, Wallace could see that Steven had a strong, pronounced jawline and a lean face. The billionaire took his seat, and, as the maître d’ withdrew, his bodyguards stationed themselves as they had done before: two at the adjacent table and the third at the bar. Wallace made his move before any of them had a chance to settle. He was six tables away, near the entrance to the kitchen. The restaurant was packed, but it took him no time to cross the short distance and take a seat in the vacant chair at Steven Byrne’s table.
Steven’s intelligent eyes widened with surprise.
‘Mr Byrne, I need to speak to you about your daughter,’ Wallace said hurriedly. He glanced at the two nearest bodyguards, who were already on their feet.
‘It’s OK,’ Steven surprised Wallace by immediately waving the men off. ‘I want to hear what he has to say.’
As the two imposing men returned to their seats, Wallace looked at Steven and saw that his initial surprise had been replaced by curiosity. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, but he said nothing as he stu
died Wallace.
‘I think your daughter may have been murdered,’ Wallace began. ‘A few months ago, a man broke into my home and tried to kill me. When I was hospitalised, he tried again and killed a number of people in the process. He murdered my . . . he murdered a friend of mine,’ Wallace continued. ‘I followed a trail of killings from the UK to the US. Your daughter is the next on that trail. She was linked to the previous victim.’
‘How?’ Steven asked earnestly.
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m here,’ Wallace replied. ‘Does the name Kye Walters mean anything to you?’
Steven shook his head slowly.
‘Can you remember anything about Erin’s death? Anything at all?’ Wallace pressed.
‘Like what?’
‘Stewart Huvane, the first victim, told people he’d been attacked before the killer managed to finish him off,’ Wallace explained.
Steven was lost in silent thought as he considered his daughter’s death. Finally, he shook his head. ‘I can’t think of anything,’ he replied. ‘I wish I could. In many ways it would make it easier to come to terms with her passing.’
‘But . . .’ Wallace became aware of someone standing beside him and suddenly stopped talking. He looked up to see the obsequious maître d’ with two heavyset security guards at his shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Byrne,’ the maître d’ said with a slight bow. ‘Is this gentleman bothering you?’
‘It’s OK, I think he’s finished,’ Steven replied with the gracious condescension of the exceedingly powerful.