Under Water

by Casey Barrett

  “Have a seat, John,” I said. “I just need to ask you a few questions.”

  He obeyed. “I haven’t done anything,” he whispered.

  “That’s the problem,” I said.

  Chapter 26

  I told him I knew about Lucy and Marks, and how he’d walked in on them in a hotel room at a meet. That got his ass rooted to the chair. He didn’t try denying it, didn’t try explaining why he’d quit soon after and done nothing. He just sank lower in his seat in silence like his number had finally been called, and now it was time to settle an overdue debt that he’d tried to skip out on. Then I explained the situation with the missing Madeline McKay and her promise to get revenge for her friend.

  “So, John,” I said, “that’s where you come in. Madeline approached you about helping her, didn’t she?”

  “No,” he said without looking up. “I haven’t seen that girl or anyone from the team since I left, the week after all that went down. I’ve had zero contact with anyone.”

  “How come?”

  “I had no choice,” he said with a mix of self-pity and loathing. I wanted to reach across and slam his sniffling face against the table until he cried for forgiveness.

  “John, let me explain what you’ve set in motion,” I said. “Since you’re clearly too pussy to get it. Lucy Townes tried to kill herself last week, in part because of your failure to help her. Someone has been blackmailing Coach Marks since soon after you left. Madeline McKay, who vowed to get back at their coach after her friend confessed the affair, is now missing and a drug addict. Oh, and her boyfriend was murdered last week. Are you hearing me?”

  He finished the last of his latte and patted his jacket pocket, brought out a pack of Marlboro Lights and set them on the table between us. “I could use a smoke,” he said. “You want one?”

  “No.”

  He pushed back his chair, shuffled toward the door. I followed. His running days were long behind him. He moved with the dour air of the defeated, like a man who’d lost a battle and never regained his spirit. Out on the sidewalk he gave a furtive scan in all directions before lighting up. As he exhaled, he said: “You’re right. I owe Lucy a serious apology.”

  “You owe her more than that, John,” I told him.

  “I had no choice,” he said again. “I tried, I tried to address it with Teddy. I was horrified by what I saw. I knew . . . I’d heard that there had been others, through the years, but it was just rumors, and I tried not to believe them. But when I saw that, I just . . . I didn’t want to believe what I was seeing.”

  “How did you try?” I asked. “It seems to me like you didn’t do shit.”

  “My son had just been born,” he said. “You don’t understand. I kept quiet so I could keep my family. I did it for them. Teddy had . . . He has something on me. He threatened to tell my wife.”

  “Has what on you, John? Don’t tell me you were messing with your swimmers too.”

  “She was in college.” He sighed. “It was nothing like, nothing like what Teddy’s done. A few years ago, one of our old swimmers was home from school, training with us over the holidays, and something started between us. Teddy found out about it, I didn’t try to deny it. It was like he approved, even though I was married and all.”

  “Who was she?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “A girl named Erica. She was twenty-one, a junior at Cal. The fling, or whatever it was, lasted through that summer, at meets or whenever, and then she went back for her senior year, got a boyfriend, and that was that. I got my shit together, and Pam and I decided to start a family. Marks made it very clear: if I said anything about Lucy, then he would pick up the phone and call my wife. She’d leave me, no question about it. She and my boy mean everything to me. I’m sorry about everything I’ve set in motion, but I’ll do anything to keep my family together.”

  Kosta paused long enough to tap out another cigarette, slipped it between bearded lips, and shook his head as he sparked the flame. “I’ll never forget the way he smiled when I confronted him about Lucy. It was like he’d been waiting for that moment for a long time—for someone to dare to call him out. The day we got back from the meet, I asked to talk to him after practice. We were sitting in his office next to the pool. I’d waited for the kids to clear out of the lockers, and I remember listening to their laughter as they left. Then it was silent, just Marks and me sitting there looking at each other, next to that still water. I told him how I knew there’d been others through the years, but I hadn’t believed the rumors. But now I knew they were true. I told him it needed to end.”

  We came to a crosswalk two blocks from his home. He took self-pitying pulls at his cigarette and stared at the sidewalk. His shoulders slumped forward. The man had fallen far, his defeat made all the more poignant by his externally decent life. Wife, child, business: a man who should be grateful for his lot, but had sold too much to maintain it.

  “Did you ever threaten to report him?” I asked.

  “Of course.” Kosta coughed out a cloud of smoke. “I said, if he didn’t end it with Lucy, I would have no choice but . . .”

  “If he didn’t end it,” I said. “How courageous of you, John.”

  “Fine, call me a coward. I know I deserve it. But I knew he was going to bring up Erica. I was just looking for a way out, where I could do the right thing, but still keep my job and my family together.”

  “You failed,” I told him. Then I took his cigarette from his bearded lips—I couldn’t resist—and I ground it out at his feet. “You failed in more ways than one, you fucker.”

  Kosta recoiled, braced for a blow. Somehow I held back.

  “I know,” he said. “He fired me a week later. Then he had me blackballed from the entire sport. The bastard called up anywhere I might have had a chance to get hired, and told other coaches, in all confidence, that there were ‘rumors’ about me. Like he was doing it for the good of the sport. The balls on that man . . .”

  An impressive set indeed. In hearts, they call that shooting the moon; in poker, it was like a pairless bluff on Fifth Street. Somehow no one had called, and Marks had played his assistant coach right out of the game. Others must have heard the rumors about him, even if he’d contained his affair with Lucy. Yet no one had the courage to call.

  We walked the next half block in silence before I asked, “John, do you think Coach could have had something with Madeline as well?”

  He considered it for a few steps, shook his head. “It doesn’t fit,” he said. “Sure, she’s beautiful, but she’s the exact opposite of the girls Teddy likes. He likes the ambitious ones, without the talent to match, like Lucy. Maddie had all the talent in the world, and couldn’t be bothered with it. He gave her special treatment, yeah, because of her brother. But she’s not his type. Besides, the McKays were like his benefactors. Didn’t the mother buy him that fancy apartment on the Upper East Side as a ‘thank you’ for Charlie’s success? Teddy may be a predator that’s preyed on plenty of young girls, but he’s a calculating son of a bitch, and he’s not stupid. I can’t see him ever messing with Madeline.”

  “Her brother disagrees with you,” I told him.

  “Charlie? He told you Teddy was messing with his sister?”

  “He did. He was pretty convinced about it.”

  “Huh. Well, I guess it could be possible. I suppose the opportunity would have been there, with him spending so much time with the family. But I don’t know, I just can’t see it . . . and I’ve seen plenty from that man.”

  We turned onto Kosta’s block. I sensed him stiffen next to me, the previous paranoia returning. “You think someone’s been following you, don’t you?” I asked.

  He stopped, gazed up at me with eyes dipped in fear.

  “Don’t worry, you’re not paranoid. You’re right. Someone has been on your tail.”

  “I know.” His eyes were trained up the street on a black Tahoe with tinted windows parked across from his house, not unlike the one that had pulled
up behind me on that Williamsburg street days ago. “I know someone’s been in our home, going through our things. It’s not obvious, but you know when your stuff is just a bit off, little things that are slightly out of place? And I keep sensing someone behind me every time I’m walking down the street. I turn and look, but . . . I don’t know, I feel like I’m losing my mind sometimes.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off the SUV.

  “You recognize that Tahoe, don’t you, John?”

  As he nodded we watched a big man dressed in black emerge from Kosta’s building. He was wearing sunglasses and a Yankees hat pulled low, but I recognized his bulk. Fred Wright, Marks’s muscle, on the job, investigating this sad sack next to me. I was about to call out when I saw his eyes fix on the Tahoe across the way. His huge mass seemed to expand at the threat; his hand dipped into his jacket pocket. We watched as Fred crossed the street and rapped on the tinted passenger-side window. It slid down, and then Fred staggered back a step, his arms drifting up. Two shots rang out, and blood burst from Fred’s chest. He collapsed in the street as the Tahoe peeled away.

  While Kosta stood there paralyzed, I gave futile chase. There was no hope of catching him, but I did manage a good look at his plates. I scribbled down the digits on the palm of my hand and went back to Kosta. He was starting to unravel, the blood drained from his face. I thought he might faint at my feet. He tried to speak but failed to form words.

  We ran over to Fred, on his back in a widening pool of dark blood. His big mass heaved and twitched in its final throes. His eyes were wide and scared as we watched him take his last, blood-choked breath.

  Chapter 27

  Kosta went for his phone to stammer out a call to 911. I put a hand on his arm and told him to wait a minute. The sight of this body did not leave me with the bilious dread that the Fealy murder had provoked. Maybe it was the nature of the crime scene: a knifed naked corpse in a shower versus a fully clothed hit in broad daylight. Instead I was left with a calm detachment and a clear sense of what needed to happen next, before the cops showed up and Kosta started vomiting out his fulfilled paranoid fears. I told him who lay dead before us, explained his connection to Marks. The blood was spreading across the street. It followed the uneven slope of the pavement and began to drip down into a gutter.

  He gripped his phone and absorbed what he could. I told him that, if the cops asked, I was unable to get the plates off the Tahoe as it sped off. He looked at the hand in my pocket but didn’t question it. Then we heard the sirens. We weren’t the only ones on the block to respond to shots fired.

  The cops came roaring up like too-late cavalry. They searched the area, sealed the crime scene, and treated us like their top suspects. We described what we witnessed. No, officers, we were too far away to get a good read on the license plate. They went inside Kosta’s apartment and searched it for a long time. We stood outside between squad cars and waited for more questions. Kosta chain-smoked until his pack was empty. I texted Cass, gave her the basics and the plate numbers. I wanted her to run them first; I wanted a crack at him before the cops took their turn.

  The case kept unraveling with more violence to hide new layers of secrets. I felt like I was walking underwater, with slow, breathless steps, fighting to stay down and not float up and away. I watched with a sense of unreality as a heavy blond woman came hurrying down the sidewalk pushing a stroller. Kosta rushed to her. He hugged his wife in a teary embrace, then bent down and managed a smile as he kissed his young son in the stroller. His wife surveyed the scene in front of her home with a trembling chin. She looked like the fragile type. I went over and joined the family and reintroduced myself to her.

  “You’re the man who called earlier,” she said. “About the portraits for your baby’s first birthday. I’m so sorry you had to witness this.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Your husband already got the job.”

  She looked up at Kosta. He gave her a reassuring squeeze on a fat forearm, avoided eye contact with me. I suggested maybe she go to a nearby playground with the baby while the police finished up. She didn’t want the little guy to see any of this, even if he’d never remember. She was quick to agree. I stood back a few steps as Kosta whispered his shaken good-byes, then she wheeled the stroller around and we watched as mother and child retreated from the scene. The sky was still a stunning blue, not a cloud in sight, a beautiful day they’d remember.

  This was my second murder scene this week. The second time in seven days that I’d come upon the dead. And they say death always comes in threes. When I related this to the Brooklyn homicide detective, he didn’t like it much either. This one’s name was Fanelli, a helmet-haired Italian from the neighborhood who’d only ever wanted to protect and serve his beloved borough. He was built like a Golden Gloves boxer gone to seed. Big, firm belly, nose flattened, meaty arms that probably still hit the heavy bag a few nights a week. He asked me for ID.

  “You’ve got some bad luck, Mr. Darley,” he said, handing it back. “Why don’t you start by telling me how these two bodies are connected?”

  “They’re not,” I told him. “Didn’t you hear? NYPD already has the first murder suspect in custody. Couldn’t have been the same guy.”

  “But the same guy—you—was the first one on the scene at both murders. So, again, why don’t you tell me how these two are connected?”

  “By a girl,” I said. “A missing eighteen-year-old girl that I was hired to find.”

  “Her name?”

  “Madeline McKay.”

  “Where is she?”

  I gave him a look like I was restraining myself from breaking his nose. He returned it. It would have been a fair fight. Aikido can hold its own in most any attack, but no one wants to mess with a well-trained boxer. I’ll bet on a tough middleweight over an MMA badass any day. We had our manly standoff, and I told him I didn’t know.

  “The first dead guy was her ex-boyfriend,” I said.

  “Right, they liked her for the murder last week,” he said, remembering the headlines. “And the second?”

  “The second was just killed in front of the home of one of her old swim coaches. John Kosta. He lives there with his wife and kid.” I motioned over to him, sitting on a bumper. Someone had given him another cigarette. He sucked at it greedily.

  “How’d he know the dead guy?”

  “He didn’t.”

  Fanelli gave me another boring look of keep-talking menace.

  “The guy’s name was Fred Wright, an ex–Navy SEAL. He was hired by an old colleague to look into John Kosta. His friend had reason to believe he was being blackmailed.”

  “Who’s the friend?”

  “A swim coach named Teddy Marks.”

  I could see the hamsters spinning their wheels inside Fanelli’s head. He’d get there soon enough. I crossed my arms and waited. It didn’t take him long; maybe he was brighter than he looked.

  “What’d you say the missing girl’s name is? McKay?”

  “Madeline McKay, yes.”

  “She related to that Charlie McKay, that Olympic champ from a while back?”

  “Her older brother.”

  He nodded, impressed by his memory. “I remember that kid, I always follow the Olympics and shit. Tried out myself back in ’88, as a welterweight.” He gave a little jab to prove it. “That kid McKay was a stud, I remember. How many golds did he win?”

  “Four.”

  He seemed disappointed. “You sure? Thought it was more. Didn’t Phelps win like twenty or something?”

  “Twenty-three, actually,” I said.

  “Ah well, four’s still pretty good.”

  “Not bad.”

  “So, his sister, she some kind of fuck-up?”

  “Appears that way.”

  “And how does their coach fit into all this? You said he’s being blackmailed? For what?”

  “Got me. Like I said, I was hired to find the girl, not to solve murders or uncover blackmails.”

  “Sounds l
ike you’re doing a hell of a job.”

  I held my tongue and managed to get through the rest of Fanelli’s questions without incident. I told him some of what I knew, but not much. I’d be hearing from Detective Miller soon enough. I’d share the rest with her. Maybe she had the right man in the Fealy murder, maybe Dealer Pete acted alone in a drug deal gone wrong, and this murder had nothing at all to do with the first. Maybe I was the only connective tissue, a roving bad luck cloud of death that cursed those in my path.

  I was starting to believe it as I waited for the subway hours later, after Fred had been wheeled away in a black bag and Kosta and family had been put up at the local Sheraton. I stood on the platform feeling too sober and too agitated to think. I needed strong drink and a fistful of pills, and I intended to pour both down my throat as soon as I was released back into Manhattan. As I leaned against a tiled pillar under the DeKalb Avenue sign, I watched a couple of wasted college girls come tripping and laughing onto the platform. The lights of the next train appeared at the end of the dark tunnel. They were looking at pictures on one girl’s phone, lost in their private hilarity. The other girl leaned in to get a closer look. A heel buckled under her and she lurched forward. The subway lights were brighter now; the roar of the coming train filled the station. The girl went down and skidded across the platform until half her body was hanging over the edge. I felt someone rush past me. He dove for her, grabbed her by the calves, and pulled her back to safety just as the train rushed before us.

  The whole incident took maybe three seconds. The someone who saved her turned out to be a young resident at Beth Israel, on his way to the hospital for his graveyard shift. On the train, the girls wept and gushed their thanks and gave him their phone numbers, swearing if there was ever anything either could do . . . I thought the friend was about to drop to her knees and thank the guy right there. The one who’d been saved, the less cute of the two, was too shaken to take it all in. It was just dawning on her how close she’d come to being decapitated. I sat across from them, and she kept looking over at me with blame in her eyes. You were closer than the hero doctor, the look seemed to say, you were closer and you didn’t move. And I didn’t. I could give her many distracted reasons why, but the fact is if I had been the only other person on that platform, the girl would have been dead. The young doctor slipped me a smug look on his way off.