Restitution

by Lee Vance

  “Where are you?” she demands, her voice harsh in my ear.

  “Delayed. Maybe we can talk on the phone.”

  “Maybe you can get your butt over here right now.”

  “Can’t.”

  She smothers her handset, and I hear muffled conversation in the background.

  “I’ll meet you,” she says. “Tell me where.”

  “Just you? Or you and all your friends?”

  Five seconds tick by while I listen to her breathing.

  “Something happened,” she says. “I can’t talk about it on a cell phone.”

  “This is about Lyman?”

  “No. The city cops are working on him. Something different.”

  “About Jenna’s murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Not on a cell phone.”

  “I’m in a bad mood, Grace,” I say, pissed off by her intransigence. “Give me a hint.”

  I hear more muffled conversation on her end.

  “Call me back in ten minutes at the Seventeenth Precinct,” she says, reciting the number. “You got it?”

  “Yeah,” I say, writing on a piece of scrap paper.

  “Ask for me by name, and don’t use your cell phone.”

  She hangs up. I hunch forward in Mr. Rozier’s chair, burying my face in one hand as I try to imagine why she’d have so many cops waiting for me at the Harvard Club. Something’s very wrong. It doesn’t make sense that she wouldn’t tell me anything on my cell phone. I’m spent, almost too tired to care.

  Looking up, I see a faded copy of the Serenity Prayer tacked to the bulletin board, a wrinkled black-and-white photograph partially visible beneath it. I lean forward carefully and untack the prayer, revealing the picture. It shows a youngish Mr. Rozier on the front steps of the library, surrounded by smiling children. The kids in the front row are holding up a banner: THE HELL’S KITCHEN LIBRARY CELEBRATES NEGRO HISTORY WEEK. Signatures are scrawled along the edges. I touch the picture with my finger, feeling the indentations made by the children’s pens thirty or forty years ago. Jenna would have liked Mr. Rozier; I’m sorry they never met.

  My phone rings.

  “It’s Tigger. Everybody took off except the two cops hangin’ out front. What the fuck is goin’ on?”

  “I don’t know yet. Tilling and I are going to talk in a few minutes. Where are you now?”

  “Across the street, in a bar.”

  “I should be done here soon. You mind picking me up?”

  “I gotta gas the car first,” he says. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I dial Tilling a few minutes later at the number she gave me, still seated in Mr. Rozier’s chair.

  “Seventeenth Precinct.”

  “Grace Tilling, please. It’s Peter Tyler calling.”

  The phone clicks repeatedly, sixty seconds elapsing before she answers.

  “You’re on a landline?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Tyler. This call is being recorded. You’ve previously waived your right to an attorney. Can you confirm that you’re willing to answer some questions for me voluntarily?”

  “What kind of questions?” I ask apprehensively.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Tell me about Lyman first.”

  “I told you. The city police are handling it. No news.”

  I wonder if she’s lying.

  “Tell me why you were waiting to ambush me at the Harvard Club.”

  “After you answer my questions. You’re going to want to know about this thing that happened, I promise. And you have nothing to hide, right?”

  “How stupid do you think I am, Grace?”

  “You want to know who murdered your wife?”

  “You’re saying you know?” I ask, her words propelling me to my feet. My hip aches, protesting the sudden movement.

  “Now’s the time to hang up if you don’t want to talk to me,” she says evenly. “It’s your choice.”

  She’s manipulating me. I’d tell her to get fucked if I weren’t so desperate for information. I settle slowly back into the chair, realizing I’m going to rise to her bait. I want to know who murdered Jenna. Nothing else matters.

  “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “Everything you’ve done since you left the Marriott last night,” she says. “Where you’ve been, when you were there, and who you’ve seen.”

  “It was a busy day,” I say, hoping to get a better handle on what she’s driving at. “Give me a tighter time window.”

  “Six to ten this morning.”

  “I was in bed at the Harvard Club until eleven-thirty. Asleep.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  “No,” I say, resenting her implication. “I was sleeping alone.”

  “You slept late. Maybe someone called? Or a maid knocked?”

  “The maid tried to open the door,” I say, wondering if she’s questioned the staff already. “That was what woke me up.”

  “Tell me.”

  I briefly describe the maid’s entry and my stumble out of bed.

  “So you’re injured?”

  “A bruise. On my face. Why?”

  “Any other injuries?”

  “Nothing I can’t explain.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Next question, Grace,” I say edgily. It sounds like she’s trying to paint me into some scenario.

  “Hang on.” Her phone goes dead for a few seconds. “You lied,” she says accusingly. “You’re on your cell phone. You just blocked the caller ID.”

  “Why were you tracing my call?” I ask. “Does this have something to do with all the cops you had waiting for me?”

  More silence. I knew it wasn’t right that she’d objected to my cell phone.

  “You’re a clever guy, aren’t you, Mr. Tyler?” Tilling says softly, venom audible in her tone. “Always one step ahead.”

  Her words are a slap, making it clear that any relationship I thought we’d built in hunting for Lyman is gone. She’s just a police officer, I remind myself. It’s only important that she help me find Jenna’s murderer.

  “If I were a clever guy, I wouldn’t be talking to you at all.”

  “A few more questions,” she says. “Then I’ll tell you what happened. Did you travel to Westchester today?”

  “No,” I say, puzzled by the question.

  “Do you know a man named John Franco?”

  “Not that I recall. Should I?”

  “Do you own a handgun?”

  “Pass,” I say nervously, thinking she might’ve searched my home and found my dad’s gun.

  “What do you mean, ‘pass’?” she demands.

  “I mean I’m not going to answer that question. Ask another.”

  “You want the DA to draw her own inferences?”

  “Next question, Grace.”

  “It’s Detective Tilling,” she says. “Have you loaded or fired a handgun recently?”

  “Pass again, Detective Tilling,” I say icily.

  “Did you pistol-whip a man named John Franco in his trailer home in Croton this morning?”

  “No,” I say, relieved by the absurdity of the charge. “Absolutely not. Why would you think I was involved?”

  “Let me finish,” she says. “Did you shoot Mr. Franco?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hire or otherwise engage anyone to harm Mr. Franco?”

  “No to all questions involving Mr. Franco. I don’t know him and don’t have any reason to want to hurt him. I wasn’t involved in any way with anything that happened in Croton this morning. Tell me what this is all about.”

  “Someone dialed nine one one from Mr. Franco’s home this morning and left the phone off the hook. Local cops responded. The place was pretty torn up, suggesting there might have been a fight. Mr. Franco was dead on the kitchen floor, a bullet hole in his head.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to catch up. “How does this involve
me?”

  “Your name and office number were in his address book. Can you explain that?”

  “What did this guy do?” I ask, searching my memory. “Croton’s not far from my place. Maybe he raked leaves for us once or did some odd jobs.”

  “He was a guard at the juvie center up in Wingdale.”

  “No idea,” I say, mystified.

  “Well, here’s another interesting fact. We finally got the phone records from that number you gave us, the one Pongo got from Lyman. There are six calls between Lyman’s number and Franco’s home within forty-eight hours of your wife’s murder.”

  My heart begins racing.

  “You think Franco was the guy with Lyman when Jenna was murdered?” I ask shakily.

  “We found locksmith tools in his trailer, and an open box of latex gloves. He’s got a pair of boots that match some of the prints we took at your house. We’re working on hair and fiber now. There’s a good chance he’s one of the guys.”

  Lyman murdered Jenna and Franco was his accomplice. I feel numb. I should be relieved to finally know the truth, but if Lyman’s dead also, I’ve been cheated of my vengeance. And I still don’t know who they were working for.

  “I hope Franco suffered,” I say, gripping my phone tightly. “I wish I’d killed him.”

  “You’d have been happy to beat and shoot him?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “We found Franco’s bank records,” Tilling says. “He made a deposit the day after Jennifer was murdered. Five thousand dollars, cash.”

  “Someone paid him,” I say, choking on my hatred.

  “Possible,” she says. “But I keep wondering. Why was your work number in Franco’s address book?”

  “I told you that I never heard of the guy. Maybe he had my details because Lyman gave them to him.”

  “Perhaps. Hopefully, we’ll have a chance to ask Mr. Lyman at some point. Right now though, we’ve got to arrest Mr. Franco’s murderer.”

  “You know who did it?” I ask breathlessly.

  “We do,” she says. “You did. You’ve got an hour to turn yourself in, Mr. Tyler. If you don’t come forward, you’re going to be the lead item on the eleven o’clock news tonight.”

  “That’s what this is all about?” I demand furiously. “That’s why you were waiting for me at the Harvard Club? I thought you had some brains, Grace. My number in his book doesn’t prove anything. This is a Rommy move. This is the DA trying to look good on television. We’ve got to stay focused on Lyman. We need to find him, and we need to figure out who he was working for.”

  “I forgot to mention one final thing,” she says ominously. “The shooter used an automatic pistol, and he didn’t collect his brass. We got a fingerprint off the shell casing. Our forensic guy made a clean match. It’s your fingerprint. You got an explanation for that?”

  “That’s not possible,” I say, feeling as if I’ve been hit with a sledgehammer.

  “One hour. And then every police officer in the state is going to be looking for you. We’re describing you as armed and dangerous, and authorizing all necessary force.”

  33

  I OPEN THE DOOR to Mr. Rozier’s office in a daze and start down the stairs, clutching the handrail for support. I feel simultaneously weightless and leaden—my head buzzing while my legs drag like cement columns. Reaching the bottom of the staircase, I see Mr. Rozier sitting at one end of a long table in the empty reading room. He glances up as I limp toward him.

  “You’re looking peaked,” he says, sounding concerned. “When did you last eat?”

  “I don’t remember,” I reply, collapsing into the wooden chair next to him.

  “I’ll get you a candy bar,” he says, standing up. “The girl at the circulation desk has a sweet tooth.”

  I’ve got to focus. Somebody set me up. But who? And why? Lord knows, I’ve got all the motive in the world to have killed Franco, and no alibi. Tilling’s turned against me. If the police arrest me now, I’m likely to spend the rest of my life in jail.

  “Here,” Mr. Rozier says a moment later, reappearing with a Snickers. “Eat this.”

  I try to imagine my father’s advice, but I can’t hear his voice. An overwhelming urge to flee grips me.

  “I’ve got to leave,” I say. I have no idea where I’m going to go, but Tigger should be out front soon.

  “Eat first,” Mr. Rozier says, peeling the candy wrapper down like a banana skin and peering at me over his glasses. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure,” I say, trying to muster some bravado as I take the Snickers and bite into it. My mouth is parched with fear and the chocolate adheres to my palate.

  “I printed out your friend’s debit-card records,” he says, sitting down and sliding a few sheets of paper toward me. “He used his card twice yesterday. Once at a Hess station on the Montauk Highway and once at a place called the Ocean View Inn, in Montauk itself. Figure he bought gas and then either spent the night or had a heck of a nice meal.”

  I pry the lump of candy loose with my tongue and swallow it whole, feeling as if I’m going to choke. Montauk’s only about three and a half hours away, on the extreme tip of the south fork of Long Island. Can Andrei possibly be so close?

  “I also took a look at his wire transfers,” Mr. Rozier says. “He’s been making some regular monthly payments recently. One of them is to an outfit called Empire State Warehouses. The reference field lists an address in East Hampton, near the airport.”

  East Hampton’s about an hour this side of Montauk. Jenna and I rented a summer house near there once. I lift the papers and examine them, the words and figures neatly aligned. Mr. Rozier’s listed all the transfers, and printed out driving instructions to the gas station, the inn, and the warehouse.

  “I have to leave,” I say again.

  “You sure you’re feeling all right?” he presses, looking at me uncertainly.

  “Absolutely,” I reply. Andrei’s my one hope. I’ve got to drive out to Long Island and find him right now, before the cops pick me up.

  “I’ll see you out,” he says. “It’s started snowing, and those steps get slippery.”

  34

  WIND-DRIVEN SNOW SWIRLS in my headlights as I cruise cautiously eastward on the deserted Montauk Highway. Lifeless McMansions planted in former potato fields line the road on either side, spectral deer triggering automated security lights as they drift from yard to yard, feasting on designer shrubs. Tigger’s car is freezing. My hands are numb on the steering wheel. If it weren’t for the seat heater, I’d have hypothermia. Tigger gave me his keys reluctantly, arguing I wasn’t in any condition to drive and insisting he’d be happy to come along. I was abrupt with him, too anxious to get out of the city to explain myself.

  I’ve got the radio on low, tuned to an all-news station. An electronic chime strikes eleven o’clock and a breathless female anchor reads a press release from the Westchester DA, which describes me as an armed fugitive wanted in connection with two murders. Civic-minded citizens are given a number to call if they see anyone matching my description and are warned that I’m dangerous. The announcer promises a live interview with the DA at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Adrenaline surges through my system, and it’s an effort not to speed as my lower brain begins screeching danger like a tripped fire alarm. I switch the radio off shakily, overcome yet again by a sense of unreality. How did my life ever reach this point?

  Tigger’s car phone rings, making me jump. I turned my own phone off, fearing the cops might track my signal. The phone rings six times, falls silent, and then begins ringing again. It’s got to be Tigger, calling for an explanation of the news report. I press the answer button on the steering wheel reluctantly, unable to bear the jangling any longer.

  “I can’t talk now, Tigger.”

  “Peter?”

  I guessed wrong. It’s Katya.

  “How’d you get this number?” I ask, surprised to hear her voice. Much as I don’t want to discuss Franco’s murder, I’m gl
ad she’s called. I might not have the chance later to tell her what she needs to know.

  “From Tigger.”

  “How’d you know to call him?”

  “He’s the only friend you ever talk about,” she says tiredly. “Where are you?”

  “In his car,” I say.

  “Funny. And where is that?”

  “Long Island. Where are you?”

  “Chicago. At the Four Seasons. The airport shut down with the weather, and I can’t get home until tomorrow. Pick up the handset.”

  “Can’t. I’m driving one-handed. I hurt my left arm earlier.”

  “Badly?”

  “Just bruises.”

  “I’ve had kind of a rotten day, too,” she says, slurring her words slightly. So far, it doesn’t sound as if she knows I’m a fugitive.

  “Did you get my voice mail?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “Only an e-mail from Debra saying you’d called, and an urgent message from my mother. She wanted me to phone her before I spoke with you. Why?”

  It makes me feel a little better that she called me before contacting her mother.

  “I went to see her when I couldn’t get through to you. I told her that I knew why Andrei had been fired.”

  She swears under her breath. “Tell me.”

  I start to speak and then hesitate. Katya’s an executive officer of Turndale. The more she knows, the fewer degrees of freedom she’ll have.

  “It might be better if I did this as a hypothetical—with no names and no details.”

  “Is it that bad?” she asks, understanding instantly.

  “Yes.”

  Ice chinks against glass on Katya’s end of the phone as she steels herself.