The ladies settled at opposite ends of a sectional leather sofa. I took the club chair next to it. I sat forward and faced them, afraid to speak.
“So, Duc—Mr. Darley, I’m going to need you to walk us through your connection to this,” said Miller. She averted her eyes, inwardly scolded herself for her stumble over my name.
“Is this why you were begging to see me?” asked Juliette. “To warn me?”
The women glanced at each other, engaged in a silent power play. Miller leaned in and placed her elbows on her knees. She was a small, compact woman without wasted space. In contrast, Juliette was long and curved and full. Her indulgent, high-priced beauty was a threat to every woman competing in the infinite ways of city women. She leaned back and crossed her legs and draped an arm over the back of the couch. “Well?” she said.
My instinct—with both cops and with women—was to lie, or at least to omit. Shape the story to fit your needs. Add little else. The whole truth was almost never advisable. It only caused more trouble, more questions, more mistrust. But I thought of Stevie down the hall, and the threats made against him. Omitting details now could place him in further danger. I couldn’t have that on my conscience.
“This started with a text I received from my partner, my former partner, Cassandra Kimball,” I said.
Juliette stiffened at the sound of her name. I avoided her eyes.
“Her lover died recently,” I told them. “He fell over a waterfall, upstate in the Catskills. A writer named Victor Wingate. His death was ruled a suicide. Cass thinks he was pushed. She asked me to help her look into it. I agreed and went to see her. She told me Wingate was writing a book about Carl Kruger. Kruger was a doped Olympic champion from East Germany. My understanding is that Kruger was helping Wingate to expose a current doping ring that was connected to back then, behind the Wall. My first stop when I returned to the city was to see him at his bar down on East Broadway.” I looked at Juliette. “And you know what happened next.”
Lea was glaring at me.
“What?” asked Juliette.
“Your boyfriend here insisted that he had no connection to Kruger,” said Miller.
“He’s a liar. And to be clear—he is not my boyfriend.”
“In any case, after Kruger was found dead, your boy . . . Sorry, Mr. Darley here was taken in for questioning. He failed to mention any connection to the deceased.”
“Why did you lie?” asked Juliette. “You went there to see him the night he was killed.” She turned to Miller. “Is he a suspect?”
Miller pursed her lips, gave a slight shake of her head.
“I went there to talk to him. Cass thought Wingate’s death might have something to do with what Kruger told him.”
“What does she think he said?” asked Miller.
“You’ll have to ask her. Like I said, it had something to do with a current doping operation, connected to some very powerful players. The doctors that doped Carl and thousands of others got away without any punishment. They scattered across the world to ply their trade elsewhere. Performance enhancers for hire, it’s big business these days. Appears Wingate may have been looking to expose some folks. Which might have something to do with the threats.”
“‘Threats’?” asked Miller.
“The letter, about Stevie.”
“No, you said ‘threats,’ plural. Have there been others? What happened to your neck, Duck?”
Juliette glanced over at the detective’s use of my first name. It confirmed her initial instinct. I marveled at their gender’s intuition. Miller ignored it. She was too pissed now to care what this rich, foul-mouthed woman thought of her.
“I cut myself shav . . . ,” I began. Then I thought of Stevie back in his room. “Someone put a knife to my throat,” I said. “In a movie theater.”
“Where?”
“IFC cinema, down on Sixth Avenue in the West Village. It was about twenty minutes before I came over here. Someone came up behind me at the end and pressed a blade against my neck.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked if I liked to suffer,” I said. “He asked if I liked to hurt those I love.”
“And then you came here?” asked Juliette. She stood and pointed down at me. “You motherfucker! You came here and put my son in danger? You son of a bitch.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. To incredulous stares I took it out and checked my message. Text from Cass: My friend Nat hooked us up. Have access to Victor’s email. Come home soon, ton to discuss . . .
I stood and told the women that I needed to leave. Miller told me to sit my ass back down. I sat.
“We’re going to need to speak with your partner,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Is she still upstate?”
“No, she’s living, um, staying with me.”
“Is she there now?”
“No,” I lied. “I’m not sure when she’ll be home.”
“We’re going to need you both to come in to answer some more questions,” she said.
“What about my son?” asked Juliette. “I don’t care what happens to this prick and that slut partner of his. Protecting my child is the priority here.”
“It will be, Ms. Cohen,” said Miller. “I’m going to have someone keep an eye on your building, and on your son’s school. We’ll keep him safe, you have my word on that.”
“My son isn’t going back to school, not until we find the bastard who sent that letter.” She stood and strode to the kitchen. She opened her wine fridge and withdrew a bottle, started slamming drawers, looking for an opener. I watched as she plunged screw into cork and glared back at us. “We’re not going anywhere until you people do your jobs.”
“I understand if you’d like to remain at home for a little while,” said Miller. “This letter is extremely unsettling. But I can assure you that the great majority of threats are just that, and nothing more.”
Juliette removed a glass from a cabinet, poured, and turned toward Miller. “ ‘Nothing more’? How reassuring, Detective, now I feel so much better. The person who wrote this letter might be connected to two murders. He’s probably the same person that held a knife to Duck’s neck earlier today. But I’m sure you’re right–it’s just empty words. We should go about our lives without taking it seriously. Jesus fucking Christ.”
She gulped at her wine, wiped at her upper lip.
“We take every threat seriously, Ms. Cohen. The safety of your child is paramount. We’ll have an officer stationed outside your building. We’ll see if your doorman can identify the kid who dropped off the letter. I’m going to have it dusted for prints, though as discussed—”
“Precautions were probably taken, I know. Which means you’re not going to find shit.”
“Ms. Cohen, before I leave, would it be all right if I spoke to your son?”
“No, it’s not all right.”
“He might have seen something, or someone, that didn’t seem quite right. I don’t want to alarm him, but—”
“I did see somebody,” said a young voice behind us.
We turned to find Stevie watching us from the front of the hall. God, I hoped he hadn’t been there long. He stood with a bravely puffed-out chest. Both fists were clenched and his eyes were narrowed at his mother. He wasn’t a wilter either. He’d inherited her fierce confidence. But his jaw gave him away. It trembled as he spoke. “I saw somebody weird yesterday,” he said. “He stopped and talked to Aidan and me on our way home.”
“What did he look like, honey?” asked his mother. “What did he say?”
“He was bald and had a lot of tattoos. And his voice was funny, like he wasn’t from here.”
Oliver, I thought. The same racist fuck from Rudy’s, the same one who must have tagged my front door, and held a knife to my throat in that theater.
“What did he say to you and Aidan, sweetie?”
“He asked if we’d like some ice cream. Before we could answer, he said, ‘Didn’t your moms
tell you not to talk to strangers?’ Then he started laughing. He slapped Aidan pretty hard on the back and ran away.”
“Where did he run to, honey?”
“I don’t know. He just took off running down the block, like fast. He was weird.”
“Where did this happen?”
“I told you, on our way back from school yesterday.”
“Where was Gloria when this happened?”
“She was talking to other nannies, farther back. We went back to her right away. She said he was probably just some crazy guy. She said we shouldn’t have been talking to him, but we didn’t, Mom. He just came up to us. We didn’t do anything.”
His mother went to him now and wrapped her son in a hug. She bent down and kissed the top of his head and squeezed him to her. When she released him, I could tell the helpless fear had arrived.
“Was that man bad?” asked Stevie.
She nodded and promised her son that he would never see him again.
Chapter 15
On my way out Juliette told me not to come back. Stevie wouldn’t look at me. Detective Miller made clear that Cass and I were expected to report for questioning first thing in the morning. If we were not there by nine a.m., she would have us arrested for obstruction. She stayed behind as both women watched me walk to the elevator. I felt their stares on my back. Didn’t turn. On my way down I touched my bandages. I recalled the words whispered in my ear as the knife pressed to my neck. Someone must have seen him entering or leaving. I turned west and returned to the theater.
The kid issuing tickets said he had no clue what I was talking about. He’d never seen a guy who looked like that, but then he said he’d never seen me before either, and I’d bought a ticket from him a few hours before. His eyes were stoned to slits. He had to tilt his chin up to look at me, his eyeballs invisible behind a curtain of lashes.
“I told you, man, I’ve never seen that dude before, and I’ve never seen you either,” he said. “Now do you want a ticket or not?”
“Do you mind if I go back in and ask your colleagues behind the snack bar?”
“My ‘colleagues’?” He yawned and laughed at once. “That’s pretty funny, man. But yeah, I do mind. You gotta buy a ticket to get in.”
I pushed a twenty under the glass and asked him to pick whatever he recommended.
“You like Japanese horror?” he asked.
“Perfect.”
“Seriously?”
I waited until the hamsters in his head could inch the wheel forward. He blinked and smiled. “Oh, right, you’re just, like, buying a ticket so you can go talk to my ‘colleagues’ inside. You’re sly, man.”
“Like a fox,” I told him.
He pushed the ticket and my change under the glass and tried to wink. His head lolled to the side like he was having a stroke. “Enjoy your show,” he said.
The kids working behind the snack bar were about as helpful. Maybe not quite as stoned, but glazed with indifference. No, they’d never seen the man I described; and yes, they would remember someone who looked like that. They thought. At least they were pretty sure they’d remember. But no, man, they hadn’t seen a bald, tattooed dude in the last few hours. I thanked them for their uselessness and left with even less hope for humanity.
On the way home I returned to the Marlton for another pop. Double Bulleit, bottle of Stella—the previous rounds were burned away too soon by the scene at the Cohens’. I felt the pull of a bender coming on. I’d kept it in check long enough. In times of extreme stress it was a necessary medicine.
Taking in the surroundings, I realized I couldn’t get used to this. I’d grown accustomed to good living with Juliette, where drink prices were not looked at and dives were beneath consideration. But I’d been expelled again from the gilded ranks, and the money I’d saved would not last long if I persisted in drinking in places like this. Better enjoy it while it lasted.
“You got some more time now?” asked the bearded bartender. “Or is this another hit-and-run?”
“On the run, as always,” I said. “But I think I can manage one more round.”
He nodded toward my neck. “What happened there?” he asked. “I noticed it before.”
“Rough play,” I said. “She ignored my safe word.”
He didn’t have much for that. Gave a faint smile, turned, and went to the other end of the bar, where a middle-aged tourist couple was getting toasted on Manhattans. The paunchy husband raised his glass and asked too loud for two more “Manahattas.” His wife cackled and slurped off the dregs of her current one.
I looked at myself in the mirror above the bottles. It hadn’t taken long for the whiskey bloat to return to my cheeks. I wondered if my latest cut would leave a scar. One more for the memoir, Duck Down in Darkness, I thought. I’d come up with that clever title one afternoon during my convalescence after the McKay case. In my self-absorption I resolved to write it all out someday—the betrayals and the madness and the violence of one wasted city boy’s life. But all I’d managed to write so far was that title, which probably wasn’t as clever as I thought.
Cass would be waiting at home, eager to share the latest. I had plenty to tell her too. Returning with a hazy head of booze wouldn’t be appreciated. I waved down the bartender and asked for one more and the check. But this time, no need to make it a double. A single shot would be fine. It was the little shows of temperance that mattered.
I walked home in a mostly straight line, enjoying the magic-hour light. This was when the city liked to reveal its full charm. In the spring twilight hour was when the sun bowed and granted that special glow against the buildings, when everyone stopped and gazed, if only for a moment, at the city posing for its portrait. At Broadway and 10th I paused to admire the steeple of Grace Church. Turning north toward Union Square, I felt transported to another, more tasteful era. The old loft buildings with their high windows and decorative facades still lined the boulevard. The Strand was still there, unchanged as ever, with its miles of books beckoning. The Empire State and the Con Ed stood tall and proud, standards of a city built right. But then my eyes drifted to the new soaring glass disgraces that continued to insult the skyline, and my reverie was broken.
* * *
I returned to the apartment in odd spirits. Given the events of the day, I should have been distressed. I should have been rattled by my assault in the theater, enraged by the threat to Stevie, panicked by all the violence that was back in my life. Instead I was rather calm, peaceful even, like I’d rediscovered a chaotic equilibrium that was my natural setting. I strolled in with a beatific smile and went to the fridge and poured myself some ice water. Took a gulp and leaned against the kitchen counter and said, “What a day.”
Cass was watching me from the couch with distrust. “Are you drunk?” she asked.
“Nah, just feeling a little surreal, I guess. A lot’s happened today.”
“Then why do you look so happy?”
“I’ve got nothing to be happy about, trust me.” I felt myself smiling as I took another sip. “Maybe I’m in shock.”
“What happened to your neck?”
I touched the bandage, pressed the cold glass against it. “I suppose that would be a good place to start.”
“Duck, you’re acting seriously strange,” said Cass. “Talk to me.”
“Shall we begin with the knife to the neck in a darkened theater?” I asked. “Or perhaps the anonymous threat made to an eight-year-old boy? Oh, and we’re both expected at the Ninth Precinct tomorrow morning. We have to share all we know about the deaths of Victor Wingate and Carl Kruger.”
“Christ, Duck . . .”
“Had no choice, darlin’. The mother of said eight-year-old was less than pleased by the letter she received. I was just lucky she allowed me to call Detective Miller, instead of dialing 911.”
“Come, sit,” she said. “Talk to me.”
She sparked a Parliament, exhaled, and kept her eyes on me through the plume of smoke as I refille
d my water and joined her in the living room.
“Here we are again,” I said.
She scanned the small room like it was a foreign space. “It feels different now.”
“It’s Elvis. The hound’s left the building.”
Her eyes fell shut as she nodded. “Poor boy,” she said. She leaned forward and stubbed out the burning filter and rested her forearms on her knees. She was wearing a scoop-necked black t-shirt that revealed a black lace bra beneath. She caught me staring, sat up and pulled at the neck. She crossed her leather-clad legs and sighed. “Tell me about your day,” she said. “From the time we left the restaurant.”
“Don’t you want to tell me about the emails?” I asked. “That your ex-dominatrix friend managed to hack into?”
“After,” she said. “Now talk.”
I did. I held nothing back. Lying to Cass had always been impossible. She possessed the power of a priest in a confessional. The compulsion to spill and ask for penance was the same. Whispering secrets, sharing battled desires, asking to atone and be forgiven for sins—and the church wondered why it had issues with sex and abuse. It was all the same dance. I’d rather kneel before a gorgeous lady in leather.
I told her of my walk through the Village, returning to Charlie McKay’s home and trying to resist the urge to drink, determined to stay sober for Juliette and Stevie. I told her about the film I watched, the sushi chef’s monk-like devotion to the perfect bites of fish. I described the tattooed arm around my eyes and the knife pressed to my throat, and repeated the words breathed in my ear. I confessed going to the Marlton and told her what I tossed back before going to the Cohens’ and finding Juliette there, shaken and staring at that letter. Then there was the arrival of Detective Miller, and finally Stevie coming out and telling us about his run-in with the guy who must have been Oliver.
When I finished, Cass’s expression was unchanged. She absorbed it through perpetual drags, lighting one stick after the next, exhaling upward through the side of her mouth.
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