by Andrew Grant
The stretch of open ground was even wider than it had seemed from a distance. There was a vegetable garden to the right, backing onto what was probably the garage wall. To the left, half a dozen flower beds were separated by fancy rustic-brick paths that branched out like the veins in a leaf. Farther round the side of the house, I could see a large pond—probably a natural extension of the stream I’d been following. And beyond that, screened off from the house by a wattle-weave fence, was an aboveground pool. A little low-rent for the neighborhood despite its fancy cedar-wood sides, but in-ground pools are banned around there due to the high water table. It’s the same where we live, which is why Carolyn refuses to have one.
I reached the corner of the house and began to creep across a semicircular area of paving that fanned out from the side door. Beyond it the ground fell away and a curving brick path led down to a thicket of tall bushes. A wide gate nestled at the far end. And there was no sign of red and blue lights on the other side.
My right foot reached the path, and I froze again. A car was approaching. It was close. Its headlights cut through the bushes, sending thousands of points of light dancing toward me up the path. I willed it to keep going, but the crazy patterns grew calmer. The car was slowing down. And then it stopped, right on the other side of the gate.
I turned and ran, desperate to be back in the woods, and the house door opened. Light spilled out like a physical barrier, so I dived for the end of the fence. Then I crabbed across to the side of the pool and threw myself against its base, fighting to control my breathing.
There was no other sound, except for the car engine on the other side of the bushes. Didn’t pools usually have motors to circulate the water? Heaters? Equipment to keep them running? Maybe this one was empty. Could I hide inside? I started feeling for a way to pry open the cover, but all my hands settled on was a two-inch, flexible hose leading to an abandoned pool vacuum.
I crawled back to the fence and peered around the end. A man—short, with gray hair and a camel raincoat—was standing with his back to me. He closed the house door, very gently, picked up a tan leather suit carrier, and started down the path. And then it hit me. The car I’d heard pull up wasn’t a police cruiser. It was a cab, coming to pick the guy up. Or a car service. A way out I could have exploited, if I’d been thinking straight. Which was annoying, given that the police were searching for a man on foot.
The old guy had made it five yards when the door to the house opened again.
“Otto!” The woman looked about seventy. She was wearing a pink robe, and her long white hair was loose and disheveled. “You were leaving without saying goodbye?”
“You’re awake?” The guy dropped his bag and hurried back up the path. “My love, I was trying not to disturb you! How’s your head? Are you feeling better?”
The old couple embraced. Praying they’d take their time, I scuttled back to the pool. Found the pipe. Ran my fingers along its ridged surface until I found the connector. Poked and squeezed and wrestled until it came loose. Then I grabbed the vacuum—a cutesy thing that looked like a whale, about eighteen inches across. I crawled to the opposite corner. And flung the machine as hard as I could.
“Help!” I yelled, a second after it hit the surface of the water. “My daughter! She’s fallen in the pond! She can’t swim! Neither can I! Please! Somebody! Help!”
The old man didn’t hesitate. He ran forward, and his wife followed. I went the opposite way, keeping the pool between us for as long as I could, then making a break for the end of the fence.
I picked up the guy’s bag and ran down the path, shrugging off my jacket and turning it inside out as I went. Bloodstains are too easy to recognize. But that thought prompted another. What if the guy had a regular driver, who knew what he looked like? Or what if it was a friend of his, coming to collect him?
Either way, I’d be finished.
Wednesday. Evening.
THE CHAUFFEUR’S FACE REGISTERED SURPRISE AS I STEPPED THROUGH the gate. But he headed for the Town Car’s trunk, nonetheless.
“Don’t worry about that.” I went straight to the rear door. “I’ll keep the bag with me.”
“Sure, sir.” He opened the door for me, but didn’t close it after I was settled.
“What are we waiting for?”
“The job sheet said two people, Mr. Schmidt. You and your wife. Going to the Grand Hyatt. Above Grand Central Station. Is that not right?”
“Oh. Well, it was. But my wife? She’s sick. She had to drop out. It’s a last-minute thing. And I’m actually in kind of a hurry now. There’s a couple of people I want to catch up with before they spend too long at the hotel bar, so the sooner you get me there, the happier I’ll be.”
“Understood, sir.”
THE LINCOLN WASN’T THE KIND of car you’d pick to race around those narrow, curving lanes, but the chauffeur still seemed excessively cautious.
“You heard me when I said I was in a hurry, right?”
“Sorry, sir. Can’t risk it. Too many police around here tonight.”
“Police? Why?”
“They’re looking for someone. Homeland Security’s involved, apparently …”
“How do you know?”
“I got stopped on the way here. They only let me through because I was picking up two people, and the job was booked a fortnight ago.”
“Where—”
The blue and red pulsing light that appeared around the next bend answered the question for him. I was heading straight into a trap, but I couldn’t tell the chauffeur to turn around. It would be like screaming, I’m the one they want. And we were only seconds away from the roadblock. There wasn’t much time to think.
I pushed my incriminating jacket down onto the floor, then unzipped the suit carrier. There was a tuxedo in the main compartment, along with a fancy shirt and a paisley bow tie. A pair of patent leather shoes was in the outer pocket. And a pair of silk pajamas in a narrow, central section. But there was no ID. No formal invitation. Not much to work with. And without my phone—I cursed Peever for confiscating it—I couldn’t Google to see what events were being held at the Grand Hyatt that week.
The officer stepped away from his car when we were still twenty feet away. He signaled with his flashlight and the chauffeur touched the brake, winding down his window as we coasted to a halt.
“You told me two people.” The officer flashed his flashlight at me, alone on the backseat.
“I was booked for two.” The chauffeur’s shoulders rose a little in a muted shrug, but his hands stayed prudently on the wheel. “His wife’s sick, he said.”
The officer reached back and pulled open my door.
“Step out of the car, please, sir.”
I complied, willing my legs not to shake.
“Your name?”
“Otto Schmidt.”
“And where’s your wife, Mr. Schmidt? Why isn’t she with you?”
“She has a migraine.” First I had to account for the absence of my real wife. Now, for someone else’s I was pretending to be mine. The irony was killing me. “She stayed home.”
“Let me see your ID.”
“You know, Officer, I don’t have my wallet. I’m not driving, so I didn’t think I’d need my license. Everything’s pre-paid at the hotel. Except for the silent auction. It’s for charity, and I’ve learned from experience, the only way to avoid leaving a few thousand dollars lighter is not to bring any money with you.”
“Really?” The officer didn’t join in my forced laugh. “What’s your home address, Mr. Schmidt?”
“This is my street.” I gestured to my left. “Mine’s the first house you come to, that way.”
“And your phone number? Let’s call your wife. See if she confirms your story.”
“I’d rather not disturb her, actually, Officer. Her migraine was wicked bad. Why not call the car service, if you have any doubts? My secretary made the booking, what, a couple of weeks ago.”
“Sir, please turn aro
und and place your hands on the car.”
“Officer, please. Is that really—”
“Hands on the car. Now.”
I turned and leaned, and the officer jabbed my ankles with his foot to force my legs farther apart. He didn’t say a word as he patted me down, starting low and working his way up to the collar of my shirt. Then I heard something metallic jangle behind me.
The officer took hold of my right wrist and pulled it down behind my back. This was it. My escape had failed. I felt numb. Then his radio squawked. He stepped away to talk, but after a minute moved back and tapped me between the shoulder blades.
“Sorry, sir. You can put your hands down now. Your wife is at home, like you said. She just called 911 and reported an intruder in your yard. You’re welcome to follow me over there, but stay in the car until I give you the green light to get out, OK?”
I sank back into my seat, and the chauffeur started to turn the unwieldy Town Car around.
“What are you doing?”
“Going back to your house. Like the officer said. To make sure your wife’s all right.”
“Forget about it. You know the boy who cried wolf? It should have been the wife who called the police. This is the fourth time since Memorial Day. We’ll probably get billed for it. Seriously, don’t worry. Just keep going.”
WITH THE POLICE BEHIND US, the chauffeur’s right foot became a little heavier. I pictured the cop, racing in the opposite direction. Reaching the Schmidt home. Finding the old woman’s husband still there. And then what? Jumping back in his patrol car, and trying to catch us? Radioing ahead, to have more cops lying in wait at the Grand Hyatt? Or would they intercept us on the way to the city? And what about the car company? Could they contact the chauffeur, and have him divert somewhere to hand me over?
I wriggled forward in my seat and surveyed the front of the Town Car. It wasn’t like a cab—there wasn’t a radio or a screen to indicate the next pickup—but the chauffeur must have had a phone. Where would he keep it? Not in his pocket, please! I moved a little farther, and breathed a silent sigh when I spotted it lying facedown on the passenger seat.
“Look out! Stop!” I shot my arm out, pointing to the chauffeur’s left. He slammed on the brakes. The car shuddered to a stop. And the phone skidded forward on the shiny leather, slipping off the edge and disappearing into the foot well.
“What the hell—”
“Sorry. I thought something ran out. A deer, maybe. I’m coming up front with you. I’ll keep watch. Damn creatures are everywhere. They’re a menace.”
Before he could object I grabbed my jacket and moved to the passenger seat, carefully planting my foot on the fallen phone. At the next bend I allowed the jacket to slide off my knee. Cursing, I reached down to retrieve it. And with it, the phone. I took a quick glance to locate the power button. Then I made a show of refolding the jacket, wrapping it tight to smother any sounds the phone might make as I surreptitiously switched it off.
What should I do next? Continuing to Manhattan was out of the question. So was staying in the Town Car much longer, given the number of police in the area. But where else could I go? Then I noticed the chauffeur glancing down at his instrument panel.
“You know, the fancy dinner at the Hyatt’s not till tomorrow. And I’m off the leash tonight.” I winked, then gave him an alternative address. “Take me there, instead. It’s not far. I’m thinking, a hand or two of cards. A friend of mine has a little place above a restaurant. The kind of place you don’t go with your wife in tow …”
I had no idea whether there was a card school above the restaurant I’d named. But I did know it was only a block away from somewhere I’d be safe.
Troye’s gallery.
Wednesday. Late evening.
TROYE’S GALLERY WAS, OF COURSE, CLOSED.
I stood in front of the building, wondering what to do next and worrying about prying eyes in the darkness around me, when I noticed a car parked in the corner of the gallery’s tiny lot. Just one, on its own. A Rolls-Royce. Maybe from the 1970s. Not old enough to be really valuable. Not new enough to impress anyone. But still a classy ride. The kind of car you buy to please your own eccentric taste, not to fit in with the crowd. And given that it was painted metallic gold, only one person’s name sprang to mind. Troye’s. I moved over to take a closer look and when I saw the license plate—ART-LVR—there was no doubt left. Troye had to be nearby, but where?
I went to check around the back of the gallery in case there was an office entrance. Maybe he was working late. Troye didn’t strike me as a paperwork kind of guy, but you never knew. There were two large, evil-smelling Dumpsters crammed into the space below a rusty metal fire escape at the north side of the building, so I crossed to the south and made my way cautiously into the shadows. A single naked lightbulb was burning farther ahead. I hurried toward it. Beneath it was a plain gray door. The faint remains of painted-out graffiti were still visible across its surface. There were no windows, no mailbox—not even a company name marked anywhere—but there was an intercom. I hit the button, more in hope than expectation. There was no reply. I tried it one more time, and was about to turn and hurry away when the tiny speaker crackled into life.
“What is it?”
“Hello? I’m looking for Troye Liptak.”
“Who is?”
“I’m a friend of his.” I wasn’t about to broadcast my name, with the police searching for me.
“What’s this about?”
“It’s personal. I need to speak to Troye. Urgently!”
“The gallery’s closed. Come back tomorrow.”
“No, wait. Please. Is Troye there? I really need to speak to him. Is he there?”
“You’re wasting my time. Tell me who you are, or get lost.”
“I’m Marc Bowman,” I said, in desperation. “And I want—”
“Marc? Is that you? This intercom’s crap. I didn’t recognize your voice. Wait there. I’ll be right down.”
I heard a door slam somewhere inside the building, then heavy footsteps on creaky wooden stairs. Chains rattled, a lock ratcheted back, and finally the door swung open to reveal a plump bald guy in a stained T-shirt and ratty sweatpants.
“Thank you. I’m looking for … Troye, is that you?”
“Of course it’s me. Who else did you expect to be in my apartment?”
“But your voice? Your accent’s different. And your clothes. And your …”
“Hair? I wear a wig when I’m working. It’s part of the costume. Like the suits. No big deal. But what you see now—this is the real me.”
“Why?”
“I’m an art dealer, Marc. That means I need to look like one, if I want to eat. You think people from round here are going a trust a slob from Paulsboro, New Jersey, to help them invest their millions? Of course they’re not. They want an exotic East European with a flamboyant taste in clothes. So that’s what I give them.”
“OK. I’m just … surprised, I guess.”
“You can’t take anything at face value in this world, Marc. You should know that by now. Anyway, what’s up? Look at you. Is that blood on your coat? And your face? It’s filthy. Did you get mugged or something?”
“It’s a long story. And no, honestly, I’m not OK. I need help, Troye. Can I come in? Tell you about it?”
“I suppose you better. But it’s Brian.”
“What is?”
“My name. It’s Brian. That’s what my friends call me.”
THE MAIN ROOM IN Brian’s apartment was a giant rectangle, the full length of the gallery beneath and maybe three-quarters of the width. One end was set up as a small kitchen, and there was a broad arch in the far wall that I guessed led to his bedroom and bathroom. One of the remaining walls was taken up with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the other was filled with a random jumble of paintings and drawings. The floor was covered with rugs—maybe a dozen, different sizes and patterns—which didn’t quite meet in places, revealing patches of rough, unfinished f
loorboards. There was no TV or stereo, and not much furniture. Just a coffee table, a worn La-Z-Boy chair, and a couch that looked like a reasonable copy of a Robin Day design from the sixties.
“Make yourself comfortable.” Brian gestured to the couch.
I lowered myself down, happy to rest my aching muscles.
“Are you hungry? Have you eaten? I have leftovers.”
“Now you mention it, yes. I’m starving. Thirsty, too.”
“Leave it to me.” Brian crossed to the kitchen area and pulled a cardboard delivery box and a bottle of Evian out of the fridge. “Eat. Drink. Then tell me what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.”
BRIAN SAT IN THE CHAIR opposite me and between bites of cold pepperoni and spinach pizza—a strange combination, but it worked—I replayed everything that had happened since I left his gallery on Monday. Well, not quite everything. I didn’t get into every last detail of the situation with Carolyn. I gave him the sanitized version that I’d fed to the police and Homeland Security. I figured that would be enough for him to get the gist of things.
“I don’t believe you, Marc.” He leaned forward and the impassive expression on his face finally cracked.
“It’s true. Every word. Which part don’t you believe?”
“I believe what you’re telling me. I just don’t believe you’d come here. To my home. What were you thinking, dragging me into this? This is your mess. It has nothing to do with me.”
“I need help. I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“What if you were followed? I’m harboring a fugitive right now. Did you think of that? If I get arrested, do you know what that’ll do to my business? And these other guys? With the bikes? Whoever they are? Sounds like they’d do a lot more than flush the gallery down the toilet. Probably flush me down there with it.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have involved you. But I didn’t know what else to do.”