by Marcus Sakey
“We didn’t know our tenant very well,” Anna said. “I wouldn’t know what to look for.”
“Well, just take a glance, see if you spot anything.”
They shrugged, started walking around. Tom figured unless the refrigerator was gone, he wasn’t going to notice much difference, but it gave him time to think.
What he’d said to Anna, about it being thieves, that had been automatic, just him trying to calm her down, to make things better. Male problem solving. But in his own head, he had to wonder. They’d never been robbed before. Lincoln Square was pretty quiet. And as he took in the gaping cabinets, the cans of soup and containers of pasta spilled across the counter, the open drawers, it was hard not to get the feeling that this was a pretty thorough search for a couple of junkies.
Maybe they hit this unit instead of ours because it was on the ground floor. Maybe the place is torn apart because they were looking for cash, or for pills. Maybe they were thorough precisely because they were desperate. There’s no reason to think it’s more than that.
Except, of course, that there were reasons. Several hundred thousand of them.
DETECTIVE HALDEN made Anna feel good about paying taxes. Justice in gray pinstripes, he was in charge the moment he stepped into the room. The other cops clearly deferred to him, their posture improving. Halden spoke to the officers, nodding and asking questions. He squatted by the front door and focused a flashlight into the lock, then repeated the process in the back.
“Hello again,” as he shook their hands. “Officer Abramson gave me a rundown, but would you take me through it again, Mrs. Reed?”
“Anna, please.”
“Anna. I’d like to hear it from you.”
She nodded, sitting at the kitchen table now, the three of them having coffee, the uniformed cops gone. Told him about running errands – leaving out the part where she leveled seventy grand in debt – then coming home, finding the place ransacked. The foul smell in the bathroom, the insult of it, the violation, someone they didn’t know leaving that floating in their toilet. Her fear as she realized they might still be around, then her flight, right past her purse with her cell phone, and finally dialing 911 from the corner market. Halden nodded, scribbled the occasional note. His posture straight, a good-looking guy, clean-cut as a recruiting poster. Her gaze kept pulling to the gun on his hip, a matte black thing that made her shiver. When she finished talking, he nodded, said, “When you arrived, the door was locked?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
She thought back, remembered setting down the plastic bags to dig out her keys. “Yes.”
“And the windows were closed and locked as well.”
She nodded. Then caught where he was going, said, “Yes. So how did they-”
“Neither door shows signs of force. My guess would be that they either had keys or jimmied the lock.”
“Who would have keys?”
“A friend?” Halden stared at her. “Tell me, have you remembered anything else about your tenant?”
She made herself bite her lip before shaking her head, wanting it to look like she was thinking hard. “I’m sorry. We really didn’t know him.”
“You said the other night that you didn’t know what he did for a living.”
“No.”
“Did you ever notice him going to work? Bump into him in the hallway?”
She thought about it. “You know, I guess I didn’t, really.”
“Why do you ask?” Tom lifted his mug by the rim. “Could whoever broke in have something to do with him?”
Damn it, don’t go there. Why even plant the seed?
Halden rocked his head in a noncommittal gesture. “Hard to say.” He set his pen down on top of his notebook, the edges perfectly parallel, then leaned forward with his hands laced. “Usually we don’t disclose information about active cases, but given the circumstances, there’s something I should tell you. Your tenant, the man you knew as Bill Samuelson, that wasn’t his name. His real name was William Tuttle. When we ran his fingerprints, the record came up.” He paused. “I’m not going to lie to you. Tuttle was a bad guy.”
“What do you mean, bad?” Tom asked.
“He’d been arrested for assault. Did a little time, couple of years, on an armed robbery. He was questioned in several more, and was picked up on a distribution charge out in California, though that eventually fell apart.” Halden leaned back, spread his hands. “I should say that he wasn’t wanted for anything when he died. Just because he had a sheet doesn’t mean he was still a criminal. That’s why I was asking about a job.”
Anna could hear the ticking of the wall clock, could feel her pulse outpacing it. The money. It wasn’t what they’d thought, a quirky story, a recluse who didn’t trust banks. That money was stolen. And not in the victimless embezzlement scenario they’d spun, either. Will Tuttle was no pension scammer or white-collar embezzler. He was a dangerous man who worked with others like him. She met Tom’s eyes, saw the same calculation in them.
They had to get Halden out. The longer he was here, the greater the chance they’d slip in some way. She could tell that Tom half-wanted to just give in, to announce the truth to the detective. But it was more complicated than that.
She realized that Tom and Halden had continued talking. Shook herself, tuned back in.
“… an overdose,” Halden said. “That prescription? It was a drug called fentanyl, a very serious painkiller. It’s not normally available in pills like that, but this was re-cooked for the street.”
“So it was suicide?”
The cop shook his head. “No. He probably figured it was something he could handle, OxyContin. But the dosage was powerful enough to trigger a heart condition. Chances are he didn’t even know he had heart problems. People usually don’t, until it’s too late. But here’s the thing.” Halden sipped his coffee. “To get his hands on stuff like that, he would have known people. Dealers, other junkies. It’s very possible one of them knew where he lived.”
“And decided to see if Samuelson – I mean, Tuttle – if he had any drugs to steal,” Tom said.
“Exactly.” The detective nodded. “That’s my thinking.”
She crossed her arms, leaned back. Looked away. Hitting the body language hard, trying to get the detective to see it was time he left. But Tom kept talking, asking, “Is there anything you can do?”
“Do?”
“To catch whoever was here. Fingerprints or something?”
Halden smiled, shook his head. “If you want, I’ll get a team out. They’ll make a big mess, stain up your nice white walls, but if it’ll make you feel better, I’m happy to do it.”
“There’s really no point?”
“Guy who knows how to pick a lock but not to wear gloves? Or even if he had keys.” Halden shrugged. “I mean, you think they don’t watch TV too?”
“So should we be worried?”
“That they’ll come back? No,” the detective said. “They’d have gotten a pretty good scare. Besides, they probably found what there was to find.”
Tom looked at Anna, then reached out to cover her hand with his own. “Good.”
A silence fell, and then the detective picked up his mug, took a last sip, set it down. “Well. I best be on my way. There will be some follow-up paperwork for your insurance, but you should be in good shape.”
They stood up, followed him to the door.
“Thanks again, Detective,” Anna said, thinking, Almost, he’s almost gone.
“My job,” he said. He tucked his gold pen inside his suit jacket. “One more thing.”
Tom cocked his head. “What’s that?”
“Will Tuttle was a thief. Who knows what he might have stolen, what might have been lying around his place. Jewelry, drugs. Hell, maybe even cash.”
“So?”
Halden shrugged. “Life’s funny. Sometimes situations land in front of you that you don’t know how you’ll react until you’re in them.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, just hypothetically, say that someone found whatever it was Will had. It would be the easiest thing in the world to decide to keep it. I mean, he’s dead, so it’s not stealing.” The detective’s eyes were searchlights. Anna felt something squeezing her lungs. Her mouth was dry and her palms were soaked. She stared, trying to think of something to say.
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this.” Tom sounded steady, even the tiniest bit offended. It gave her strength, her partner in crime covering when she slipped. “Are you suggesting we took something?”
Halden just hit them with the gaze again, steady, knowing; he was seeing inside her, knew what they’d done. He was smarter than she’d guessed, smarter and more in tune, and he’d known while they sat at the table and chatted, had maybe known from the very beginning. Anna felt a mad urge to open her mouth and let truth pour free. Forced her teeth to grind.
After a long moment, the detective shrugged, said, “Tell you what. If you remember anything else useful, give me a call, would you? Sooner would be better.” He reached for the door handle. “Thanks for the coffee.” Then he stepped out, letting the door fall behind.
8
“ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?”
“Yes.” Anna sat on the kitchen counter Indian-style and watched her husband gulp a bourbon and water that was pretty much sans water.
“You still want to keep it.”
“Yes.”
Tom stared with that expression he got when he couldn’t decide whether to be baffled or angry. It wasn’t his most attractive look to begin with, and over the years she’d come to associate it with their fights. He blew a breath, shook his head, took another hit off the bourbon. “We should never have taken it in the first place.” Something in his tone accusatory. A hint that maybe she was to blame, that he’d been talked into it. She thought about setting him straight, didn’t see the point. Instead she shrugged, said, “We’re past that now.”
“If I had known the truth-”
“If either of us had, we would have left it alone and called the cops. But how could we know? I mean, really? Bill was a bit of an asshole, okay, but who looks at their neighbor and thinks, Gee, I bet he’s a violent criminal?” She shook her head. “Like you said, he was a hermit. It made more sense to imagine him saving his pennies than waving a gun at some clerk.”
“Clerk?” Tom shook his head. “Don’t be naïve. This didn’t come from a register. I don’t think you can get four hundred grand from a bank. This was stolen from a person. Maybe the one who took a shit in our bathroom this afternoon. You think of that?”
“Of course.”
“And you still want to keep it.”
“Tell you what, honey. I won’t be naïve if you won’t be dense.” She leaned against the cabinets. “It’s not as simple as giving it back and saying we’re sorry.”
He shook his head, threw back the rest of his drink in a swallow, then opened the Maker’s and splashed in two inches, forgoing the water completely this time. He capped the bottle but left the drink on the counter, put a palm up to rub his forehead. When he spoke, it was from behind his hand. “Maybe we can get that money back.”
“How?”
“Maybe the transactions can be canceled. Or, wait,” he said, “it went to credit cards. We can just pull it out against them.”
“Twenty-five thousand went to the clinic. We can’t pull that back. And the rest, do you really want to take a fifty-thousand-dollar cash advance? We were close to broke, to having to sell the house. We’d be worse off than before.”
“Okay, so we keep what we’ve spent and return the rest. The cops don’t know how much was there to begin with.”
She stared at him, her brow wrinkled. “And all it takes is one smart detective to pull our bills. Detective Halden seems pretty smart.”
“Yeah, but he was warning us. Trying to help.”
“Trying to help? He wasn’t trying to help, he was fishing. Hoping we’d screw up, tell him something. He’s a cop. You think if we hand over the money, he’s going to tell us all is forgiven?”
“I can’t see us going to jail over something like that.”
“Maybe not. But how much do you think the lawyer will cost?” Anna shook her head. “If we give up now, we’ll end up in twice as much debt, have to sell the house, maybe even declare bankruptcy. All for nothing but a dress too nice to wear and a pair of sunglasses you’ll lose in a month.”
He glared at her. “Someone broke into our house today. I couldn’t give a shit about our debt. Get your head straight.” Accusation in his eyes.
She met the glare, bounced it back. “How’s this for having my head straight? Someone broke in, searched the place, and they didn’t find it. Now they know it’s not here. There’s nothing connecting us to the money.”
“You think they’re just going to back off?”
“You think giving it to the cops will back them off? Not like we can post a sign, ‘We gave the money back, please leave us alone.’ Anyway” – she shrugged – “think. Why would they assume his landlords have his stolen money? Whoever they are, they probably think he stashed it. They checked his apartment to be sure, and now they’ll start looking elsewhere.”
That shut him up. He leaned over the counter from the other side, his elbows on it, the drink between them. She knew the posture – God, after years, what posture, what gesture, what expression couldn’t she read like a billboard – knew that it meant he was thinking about it, that the hotter emotions were draining away.
“Look.” She uncurled her legs, pins and needles, then slid off her perch and stood across the counter from him. “I know it’s scary, but we have to ride it out.”
He sighed. Looking at his drink, he said, “I just don’t want anything bad to happen to…” He trailed off, leaving the you unspoken. Trying to protect her. It was sweet in a way, but irritating too. She didn’t need a knight in business casual right now; she needed a partner, someone on the ball and working the problem.
“I know, babe. I know.” She took his hand. “But nothing is going to. We’ll be careful. We won’t spend any more. Forget we have it, live like normal. We won’t give any hints that we took the money, give anyone a reason to suspect us. And if things get worse, we can always give it back then.”
He played with the whiskey glass, spinning it on its edge, his eyes focused on the swirl of gold.
“Are you okay?”
He shrugged. “I hate this. I don’t even care about the money. Not really.”
She snorted.
“You don’t believe me?”
Anna shook her head. “I don’t believe you felt like you had to say it.” She put a hand up to his cheek, the skin rough with blue-black stubble. “I know you, baby. Better than anybody.” She smiled at him, saw the crinkle around his eyes, the lines in his forehead. “Don’t think of it as money. It’s never been about that.”
“What has it been about, then?”
His question shook her. She’d thought they were in it together, that there had been one simple reason to take it, the simplest reason in the world, the one that was only complicated for them. For a moment, she stared at him, then she stepped around the counter so that they faced each other. She reached for his hand, the fingers larger than hers and rougher, and with her other hand she pulled up her shirt and pressed his palm against her belly, let him feel the heat of it. She stared at him and didn’t say a word.
Finally he nodded, a slow, reluctant gesture. “Okay.”
SHE WAS STILL AWAKE.
Tom was on his back, one arm thrown off the bed, the sheet bunched around his hips. Anna leaned on an elbow and looked at him, the faint trace of his features by the light of the clock. How many nights had they gone to bed together? Thousands. Too many to count. Thousands of nights of brushing teeth and washing faces, of conversations about bills, funny anecdotes, trembling embraces. She could smell his skin, his hair. His faint snore rose and fe
ll against the steady drone of the rain machine. She’d told him she liked the machine for the rhythm, never had the heart to tell the truth, that it drowned out his snoring.
The hardwood floor was cool underfoot. She stepped lightly, dodging the squeaky spot. Closed the bathroom door and peed in the dark, then flushed the toilet and turned the light on. Stared at herself in the mirror, naked except for a pair of cotton panties and a white T-shirt, her hair tangled, skin red from the pillow. Stared and stared, and then when she was tired of thinking about it, she pulled her robe from the bathroom door, killed the light, and crept out.
The house was inhabited by night. The familiar surroundings seemed different, the counter looming, the kitchen table and chairs a beetle with a tangle of legs. She eased the back door open.
The stairwell was old, lit only by a high Plexiglas window, and she moved carefully, wishing she had thought to put on slippers, her bare feet tracing the edge of the wood steps. The light faded the lower she went, until she closed her eyes and just let her feet guide her, one gentle motion at a time: slide, ease down, touch the next stair. When she felt concrete, she opened her eyes and fumbled around left-handed for the light switch.
Dusty yellow pushed against the darkness, but not very hard. The mass of the water heater sat to her left, their barbecue grill, draped in spiderwebs, to the right. The air smelled old, with a faint tang of bleach from the washing machine. She moved forward, the concrete cold, careful to watch for pebbles and nails, the detritus of a hundred years. The furnace was a dark tentacled shape. She stepped past it, then moved to the wall and lifted off the plywood panel that sealed the crawl space. The scrape was loud and accusatory.
It’s not stealing. It’s not. I’m not taking from him, I’m not even lying to him. I’m just looking out for our best interests. He wants it as badly as I do, and for the same reason, but he’s scared, thinks he has to protect me.
I have to protect us from him protecting me.
She squatted down and reached into shadow, fumbled against the pipes and dust until she found the strap of the duffel bag. She pulled it out, surprised again at the weight, at how she had to drag it until it was clear enough for her to get a good angle and haul it to her shoulder. She replaced the panel and stood up. Walked back the way she came. When she flipped the light off, blackness fell like a blanket.