The Night, The Day

by Andrew Kane

  He noticed she didn’t reveal much.

  “You do seem to know an awful lot about the financial world for a psychologist,” she added.

  “I follow a bit here and there, mainly to keep up with my patients.”

  “That makes sense. Working in Great Neck, you must deal with a lot of wealthy people.”

  “I didn’t say I worked in Great Neck.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I assumed you did, coming here often, knowing the barkeep and all.”

  They sipped their drinks and shared a glance or two. Martin looked at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he said. “Can I drop you someplace?”

  “That would be nice. My flat is just up the street. I moved out of the city two weeks ago.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I couldn’t take it anymore. Needed some peace and quiet. Everyone said Great Neck’s the place to go. Long Island Railroad is close by, only a thirty-minute commute to work – quicker than the subway from the Upper West Side – and there are lots of young people, fancy places to spend money. No feelers, rapists or pickpockets.”

  “Sounds like you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “I am now.”

  She held his arm as they walked. It was only three and a half blocks to her building, a ritzy three-story condo on Middle Neck Road, somewhere between the restaurant and the old village where Martin’s office was. He led her up the walkway of the circular driveway and noticed a doorman emerge.

  “Nice place,” Martin said.

  “You should see where I lived in the city. A real dive, and for the same money.”

  “Ah, the advantages of suburbia.”

  “Would you like to come in for a drink?”

  “Thank you, but it is late.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than her.

  “Okay, well maybe another time.”

  “Yes, another time sounds nice.”

  They exchanged phone numbers, said good night, and ended with a customary yet tender handshake. Martin watched as she greeted the doorman, entered the building, and waved goodbye one last time before disappearing from sight. He stood there for a moment, wondering. Chicago had been a disaster, and now this. He knew he wasn’t ready for anything, that the smartest thing would be to discard the number and pretend the evening hadn’t happened. But somehow, he couldn’t. There was something about her that wouldn’t allow for that. And something about him that wanted to give it a try.

  Cheryl Manning entered her apartment, turned on the light, went directly to the phone in her living room and dialed a Manhattan number. “It’s me,” she told the man at the other end.

  “Everything okay?”

  “All is proceeding according to plan.”

  “You’ve made contact?”

  “Yes, he’s actually… rather charming.”

  “What?”

  “No need to worry. I have it under control. He doesn’t suspect a thing.”

  “Just be careful. And don’t get involved.”

  “I never do.”

  “This time things are different.”

  “This time is no different than any other time,” she said. “I’ll do the job the way I always do.”

  There was a brief hesitation, then the other voice said, “Good then, keep us posted about developments. We’ll see you in a few days.”

  “Okay. Take care.”

  “Yes, will do. You too.”

  chapter 6

  Martin Rosen suppressed a yawn. He was finding it difficult to concentrate on his first patient of the day. The past few nights had been fraught with tossing, turning, and ruminating over just about everything: Katherine, Elizabeth, Nancy Hartledge of San Francisco, and the newest member of the cast, Cheryl Manning. It had already been a few days since he’d met her, but she was still fresh in his mind.

  “You okay, Doc?” the man on the couch across from him asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “I asked if you’re all right.”

  Embarrassed, Martin snapped back to reality. “Yes, I’m fine,” he said, sounding a bit tentative. He looked at the clock. Five minutes remaining to the session. He’d spent close to an hour with this man and hadn’t offered a thing.

  “You sure? ‘Cause you don’t seem yourself today.”

  Martin realized that he should have known better than to try to fool this particular patient. “I’m sorry, Dan. I’ve been having a few long nights, not much sleep.”

  “I know the feeling, Doc, believe me.”

  Martin looked at his patient and smiled. Dan Gifford had been seeing him for just over a year. Their relationship was good, perhaps one of the best doctor-patient relationships Martin had ever had. Martin even occasionally speculated on how they might have wound up great friends, had they met under other circumstances.

  Dan Gifford felt a similar connection, which was what kept him coming back. He’d been to two other therapists before Martin, and neither had lasted beyond three sessions. He was about to give up the search, when a friend from AA gave him Martin’s card.

  When he first started seeing Martin, Dan Gifford had six months of sobriety under his belt. At 46, he was the Chief Assistant District Attorney of the organized crime bureau of the Queens County DA’s office, where he’d worked for the past twenty years. His daily existence was a deluge of stress and, while he had been thriving professionally, his personal life was in shambles. His drinking problem, the last vestige of a serious mixed substance-abuse habit that he’d picked up during the Vietnam War, had lingered long beyond the opiates, which he had managed to kick as soon as he returned home. He discovered later, in his treatment with Martin, that the alcohol had really been a deeper problem, one that had started long before the war, during his teenage years and maybe even earlier. His father and grandfather had also been alcoholics.

  The actual reason Dan had sought therapy went beyond the alcohol. His wife had gotten involved in Al-Anon while he was still drinking, and had left with their 6-year-old son about a month before he started going to AA meetings. Dan wanted them back and knew he had a lot more to work on than just giving up booze. Enter Martin Rosen.

  Dan appreciated Martin’s perspective on things, the shrink’s wry sense of humor, and that Martin knew what it was like to lose a wife and child. In the time that they had known each other, Dan had learned that Martin enjoyed golf, fine food, action movies, and an “occasional” drink. It was generally verboten for therapists to divulge personal information, but Martin saw the rules of “the old school” as too clinical for his liking. He preferred relaxing with patients and relating to them as humanly as possible.

  Martin found Dan fascinating. First, there was Dan’s service in Vietnam as a naval intelligence officer. Dan never actually spoke of details – most of it was highly classified and not necessarily relevant to the treatment – but Martin knew that naval intelligence officers were regarded as the cream of the crop.

  Dan’s current job, prosecuting organized crime figures, also captivated Martin. The commonality of their vocations, both being immersed in probing and analyzing the proclivities of the psyche, was often striking. Dan had some ideas of his own regarding human behavior, and Martin had always found them edifying.

  “So, you were telling me about your meeting with Stephanie,” Martin said, referring to a dinner date Dan had with his wife the night before. Dan often scheduled his get-togethers with Stephanie the evening prior to his therapy session so the details would be fresh in his mind when reporting them.

  “Yeah, well, it didn’t go as I’d hoped. This case I’m on is just eating me alive. I can’t break free from it, not even for a second.”

  Dan was referring to the trial of one of the city’s most notorious Colombian drug lords, Miguel Domingo. Dan was the lead prosecutor and had spent the past year preparing for the trial, which h
ad begun three weeks earlier. He had personally managed to turn a key witness, Domingo’s former lieutenant, Roberto Alvarez, to testify for the state. At present, Alvarez was in protective custody, and only Dan, four hand-chosen NYPD officers guarding Alvarez, and the DA himself knew the location of the safehouse.

  “I probably should have canceled with her,” Dan continued. “It’s not a good time for me to be thinking about anything.”

  “When is a good time?” Martin asked.

  “When I’m not sitting on a major case.” Defensive, testy.

  “Oh,” Martin responded, unruffled. “And when is that?”

  Dan sat back. “Good point,” he said in a soft, contemplative voice.

  Martin looked at the clock. “It seems we’re out of time, Dan, but I do feel bad that my mind wasn’t on full speed today. How about we make this one a freebie and we’ll get together tomorrow again for a real session?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Doc. The session was great, worth every penny. Look at it this way: when I was drinking, I was still better at my job than most guys. Same’s for you, you’re better in la-la-land than any shrink I know. And I don’t have time tomorrow anyway.”

  Dan handed Martin the check. “Take the money, Doc, and buy some nice lady a real fine dinner. You’ve earned it!” He turned toward the door, and added, “I’ll see you next week.”

  Dan Gifford walked through the waiting room, glancing at the older gentleman who was seated and obviously waiting for Dr. Rosen. The man lifted his eyes from a magazine and smiled politely. Gifford responded with an obligatory nod as he hastened from the office.

  Gifford stepped into the street, cognizant of a nagging feeling about the man he had just seen, the very same feeling he’d had exactly a week ago, when he’d last left Rosen’s office. It was the same man, the same smile, and the same sense of something familiar. Gifford still couldn’t place it, but he was certain he’d seen that face before. Perfectionist that he was, he knew he would chastise himself the moment he connected the face with a name. But for now, all he could do was excuse himself for slipping. He simply had too much on his mind.

  It was only 8 a.m. and already Gifford could tell it was going to be one of those gloomy, late-September days. The forecasters had called for rain, and the sky looked like it was about to make them prophets. He had forty-five minutes to get to the Queens Criminal Court House through rush-hour traffic on the Grand Central Parkway. No problem for a chief assistant DA. He would take an alternate route, Union Turnpike all the way – it was less trafficky because it had lots of lights, but he could speed through them. No cop in his right mind would give him a ticket.

  He walked toward his car, which was parked half a block down on Middle Neck Road, when he saw something that sparked his curiosity – a black, late-model Mercedes E-Class sedan parked across the street, with two men in the front seat. He slowed his pace a bit, watching from the corner of his eye. One of the men lit a cigarette, the other just sat there. The engine was off and the windows were halfway open. The car itself fit in perfectly with the neighborhood, and probably no one else would have paid it any attention. But Dan wondered about it, the kind of wondering that had made him an excellent intelligence officer and now a top prosecutor. It just didn’t feel right.

  Perhaps I’m being paranoid, he mused, but these days paranoia is a healthy instinct. There were dangerous people looking for Roberto Alvarez, and he was one of very few who knew the witness’ whereabouts. He considered that the car might be NYPD protection; he wouldn’t put it past his office to secretly place him under surveillance for his own good. But using a Mercedes for such purposes was unlikely; only the Narcs used foreign cars.

  He took note of the license plate as he got in his car, though he figured that if his suspicions were warranted it would probably wind up a dead end. It couldn’t hurt to check, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it was a rental with a bogus credit card.

  As he pulled away, he noticed that the Mercedes didn’t follow. Another person might have been relieved by that, but not Gifford. He realized there could be more than one car out there, very carefully, professionally on his tail. He was among the best at playing cat and mouse; good enough to know that there were experts who could fool even him.

  His mind was running wild, wondering if they knew what he was doing in that building. And what about Martin Rosen? Gifford entertained the possibility that the Colombians could be targeting Rosen, whether to simply kidnap and trade for Roberto Alvarez or because they believed that he might tell Rosen where Alvarez was. Either scenario seemed far-fetched, he realized, but when playing with these guys, one couldn’t be too careful. The Colombian mob rivaled only the Russians in their depravity. They would go after a man’s wife, children, friends; whatever it took for them to get what they wanted. He kicked himself for not having canceled his sessions during the trial; the last thing he wanted was to bring Rosen in on this. Everyone he came in contact with was in danger.

  Suddenly, Stephanie and Dan Jr. came to mind. If he had any vulnerability, they were truly it. He knew it was also stupid to see them during all this, instead of telling Stephanie to take the kid and visit her mother for a few weeks. But he also knew that every case was fraught with danger, and that Stephanie was finished with uprooting her life. She wasn’t about to go anywhere. As for what he should do, he simply had to choose whether to have a normal existence or not. In the past, the booze had kept him from facing such conflicts. Now the things he wanted, and Martin Rosen, would no longer grant him that refuge.

  chapter 7

  Jacques Benoît felt confident. His second session with Dr. Rosen was over, and he had successfully continued his pretense that everything was copacetic. Satisfied with his performance, he toyed with the idea of speeding things up a bit on his next visit. Then again, he reminded himself of the benefits of patience. Everything in due time.

  He stepped out of the building and into his limo. “Where to, sir?” his chauffeur asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said, lost in thought, “just drive around.”

  The limo proceeded down Middle Neck Road, and Benoît peered out the window at the pedestrians. It was a pleasant morning, and the walkways were getting busy. Benoît thought about what he was doing here, driving through this “Jewish” town, coming from his Jewish shrink.

  He also thought about his own home in Sands Point, which was only about a ten-minute drive from here. When he had first moved there forty years ago, it had been a secluded enclave for upper-crust WASPS, allegedly exclusive of Jews, an ideal place for him to fit in. An even more perfect place to hide.

  Over time, however, some wealthy Jews had discovered the dazzling cliffs and scenic shores of this Long Island Sound community and began buying some of its abundant properties. Benoît had found the change unsettling, but by the time it was happening, it was his fear, rather than hatred, that had plagued him. He was now long past his anti-Semitic, racist days. He had become a successful businessman, and had refused to join the “brotherhoods” or to associate in any way with his wartime cohorts who had also escaped. He was finished with the reckless, puerile ways of his youth. He wanted to be left alone, to be as anonymous as possible, free to go about his new life unencumbered.

  As a man who coveted his privacy, he skillfully avoided the paparazzi and never granted interviews. So far, he had been successful, but the fear of being recognized never waned. He knew there were people out there who could expose and indict him, that at any moment his facade could be shattered. He no longer had any desire to harm them; in fact, he had grown weary of trying to understand how he had ever behaved so monstrously. But in his mind, he wished they would just go away.

  He had tried to change things, had started going to church, giving more money to charities than most men make in an entire lifetime. Still, he knew his ultimate debt remained unpaid.

  He thought about that debt, the crimes he had com
mitted. He had managed to forge a new existence, but now they had reawakened the memories. Now he could no longer erase the evil by which he had long ago defined himself. Now he could see it all once again, and with a clarity that time would never dull.

  August 11, 1943

  Lyon, Vichy France

  He looks at the house. He knows the people who live there. It is the home of a banker his parents have occasionally borrowed from. His father had once described the man as “decent, for a Jew.” On several occasions, the banker’s wife, a belle in every sense, was subjected to his attempts at flirtation. It is the French way for men to fraternize with beautiful women, and vice versa, be they married or not. But this woman dismissed his every advance; these Jews were so different.

  The Gestapo chief turns to him. “Is this it?”

  He believes it is but consults the list to be sure. The Germans admire efficiency and have no tolerance for errors. So far, he has impressed them, but one meager mistake could change all that.

  The list confirms it. This is the home of Philip Saifer and family, which includes the lovely wife and two young children, a 10-year-old daughter and a 7-year-old son. The list contains hundreds of such families, addresses, names, and the exact number of members in each. Several pages in length, it has taken him and his men months to compile, and holds the destiny of well over a thousand lives.

  “Most definitely,” he responds to the chief.

  It is a late summer afternoon. The men are overworked and overheated in their uniforms. This is the fifth home in what, so far, has been a long day. They have been gathering these families throughout the city for several days now, starting with the wealthy and prominent, like the Saifers.

  He, too, is hot in his uniform. For years, all through his childhood, he wanted nothing more than to don the garb of a police officer. His parents own an inn on the outskirts of the city. They had always hoped he would follow in their footsteps, but his childhood had been fraught with fantasies of a different life. Catering to loud-mouthed fools, many of them Jews – cleaning their beds and bathrooms, serving their meals – it had never been for him. He needed more excitement, and he craved the deference, even fear, from others that he now enjoyed.