by Toby Ball
Henry nodded, eyes on his steepled fingers.
“So Altabelli and Bernal. I don’t know. You think someone turned?”
“Just answer the question,” Henry said with a seriousness that had Block concentrating on the question again.
“I don’t know. It’s a hard one. I had to say one, I guess I would finger Bernal. He’s so goddamn nervous sometimes. Why?”
Henry rubbed his face with his giant hands. “I don’t know. I’ve got a feeling. Things are getting dicey. I told you that this clerk from the department went looking for Reif DeGraffenreid?”
Block nodded and leaned forward.
Henry continued, “So I put Smith on him, follow him around a little. Guy never leaves his office. But the other day, who pays him a visit? Frank Frings. And then goddamn Frings writes a column that says he’s met with these guys that’ve been planting the bombs.”
“So you think this clerk is the bomber?” Block asked, puzzled.
Jesus Christ. “Of course not. We’ve got a couple of guys chaperoning him, but not for that reason. He’s harmless except that he went looking for goddamn DeGraffenreid. So I’ve got two problems. One, these bombers Frings says he’s met with. Two, this clerk found out about DeGraffenreid and then talked to Frings. So on the one hand I need Frings to tell me who the bombers are, and on the other hand I need him to not look into the DeGraffenreid case, or any of the other Navajo cases.”
Block shrugged as if it were no big deal. “So? Make him talk. Put the fear of a vengeful fucking God into him. You know how to do that shit. Look what you did to that poor commie bastard this morning.”
“Don’t be a goddamn moron. Frings is untouchable. He’d write about it in a second, and no matter how goddamn charming and innocent I act, half the people will believe it. So I did a couple of other things. You know Frings’s girl? Nora Aspen?”
“She’s a nice piece.”
“Feral’s got her.”
“No shit.” Block seemed to enjoy this news.
Henry nodded. “He pinched her from her apartment. Left a note for Frings to drop the case.”
“Has he?”
“Not yet. He may need her to suffer a little first. Let him know the gloves are off. I also sent Smith to have a chat.”
“I’m guessing that didn’t go over.”
“No. But he cut Frings a little. Gave him something to think about.”
“Well, don’t hurt that Aspen piece too much. Wouldn’t do too much good for the American male’s morale.”
Henry shook his head. “Another thing. Lena Prosnicki got out.”
“Christ almighty. How’d she do that?”
Henry frowned. “We’re looking into it. We’ve got no idea what she did once she escaped. One of the nurses noticed she was gone during bed check. Feral was busy, so I sent Smith after her and he took care of it.”
“Jesus, Red, there’s a lot of shit happening.”
Henry nodded, staring at the far wall.
“So what does Bernal have to do with any of this?”
“I don’t like that this is all happening right now. Doesn’t make sense to me that, like you said, it all happens at once like this. There’s always something, but in drips. This is a goddamn flood.”
“So what’re you going to do?”
Henry didn’t answer. He had a funny look about him. Block was about to ask again, then thought better of it.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
It was late, but she said she wanted a bath. Of course, without windows, she had no way to know the time. The drug-induced sleep would have contributed to her disorientation, as well. Feral had not foreseen this request—stupidly, he told himself—but it seemed reasonable enough. Still, it posed some logistical problems. He went through his bathroom and carefully removed anything that she could use to harm him or herself: razors, of course, and the rope that he used to hang laundry, scissors, all medicines, and matches. Even without these items, she could still drown herself. It was awkward. He drew her a warm bath.
She was in a robe when he let her out of her room. It was the first time that she had stepped foot in the rest of the apartment, though it was only to walk a few feet down a hallway. Her hair was up and she looked unkempt in a becoming sort of way. He paused at the open bathroom door and let her enter. She began to close the door, but he stopped it with his hand.
“You must leave the door open.”
“Are you going to watch me bathe?” she said with a pout. Was it a flirt? A taunt? A challenge? Whichever, it made him uneasy.
“No. I’ll sit in the hall, but I can’t let you shut the door. You could hurt yourself.”
She smiled. “Think I’d drown?”
Feral didn’t smile. “I don’t know.”
She gave him an indifferent shrug, turned, and without warning shed her robe. Feral looked away quickly and moved a step down the hall so that he could not see in, his heart pounding.
“The water is perfect,” she called out.
He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said, “Do you see the soap?”
“Thank you.”
Feral stood silently in the hall, listening to the gentle sloshing of the water as she moved about in the tub. After a brief silence, he called out to her, “Is everything okay?”
“It’s lovely,” she said, sounding as if she meant it.
“There’s a towel on the sink when you’re done.” He kept his voice level but wanted to hear her again.
“Yes, I see it. Thank you.”
After a few more minutes he heard the sound of water displacement and then dripping as she got out of the tub. He heard the soft noise of towel against flesh as she dried herself. Feral stayed rooted to his spot in the hall.
She appeared in her robe, her hair wet and pulled back, her face shining. As she passed him in the hall, small beads of water dropped from her hair onto his hand. She walked directly to the door to her room, then turned to wait for him to open it with a key. They were close now, close enough that he could feel her breath on his face.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and slipped through the threshold.
He closed the door behind her and found himself alone in the hallway.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Bernal arrived first.
Fog had come in off the river and penetrated Frings’s trench coat, leaving him shivering in his damp clothes. Frings would not have found Bernal but for the orange glow of his cigarette intensifying with each inhalation. It was incredibly stupid for Bernal to arrive first, but Frings resisted the urge to confront him. He was probably already sufficiently on edge.
“You’re early,” Frings whispered.
“You’re not the only one who is nervous about being watched.”
Frings couldn’t see Bernal’s face. “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”
“Are you sure?”
It was a fair enough point, so Frings got on with it. “Your guy Samuelson. He’s a convicted killer but was never incarcerated. How am I doing so far?”
“Go on.”
“There are others, too. Other murderers who were convicted but never sent to prison. They were shipped out to the country.”
Fog had a way of dulling and diffusing sound. When a sudden noise, like a scraping and then a thud, came, Frings could not pinpoint its exact nature or direction.
“I don’t like it down here,” Bernal whispered. “Let’s go up on the bridge.”
A little-used trestle bridge ran directly above them, spanning the river. At one time it had been a railway bridge, but it had converted to an auto and pedestrian bridge when the railroad was rerouted. Frings followed Bernal by sound as he scrambled up the rise to the pitted gravel-and-dirt road and then to the bridge. For some reason, Bernal walked fifty yards or so onto the bridge before stopping and leaning with his arms on the railing. The river rushed beneath them, shrouded in fog.
“So you found out about Samuelson.”
“I don’t understand it. Why didn’t th
ey send those sons of bitches to prison? Why ship them out to the sticks?”
Bernal had a new cigarette in his lips and he struck a match, illuminating his face. The brief peek at Bernal’s psyche showed a man close to his limits.
Bernal fished into the pocket of his trench coat and handed Frings several sheets of paper, folded together in quarters.
“What’s this?”
“Two things. The first is Samuelson’s address. Talk to him. He’ll have answers for you. The second is financial records. They’re not the originals. I copied them by hand. I didn’t get everything, but you have the parts that are important. Talk to Samuelson. Look at the records. That should give you the story.”
Headlights shown through the fog as a car approached. Frings and Bernal stood in silence as it crept by them on the bridge.
“You know that car?” Bernal asked.
Frings shook his head, then, realizing that Bernal might not have been able to see his response, said, “No.”
Frings heard Bernal inhale hard on his cigarette and hold it for a beat before exhaling in a rush. “I’m taking a big risk doing this. A big risk.”
“You’re doing it so you won’t sink with the ship. You’re hedging your bets.”
“Easy to say from where you stand, Mr. Francis Frings. Where I stand, there are no good choices. Where I stand, I’m likely to get hurt no matter what choice I make.”
The time when Bernal had had real choices was long gone. He’d made them and enjoyed the benefits for a time. The bill was now due, though, and Frings had no sympathy for the man before him, invisible in the darkness but for his cigarette. He did, though, have an interest in keeping Bernal from a complete mental collapse. “I can help you with one thing. The man who took the photos of you.”
“Yes?”
“I talked to him. I convinced him that he would be better off if he sat on them.”
“How did you do that?” Bernal’s tone was flat. He was under too much pressure to feel much relief from this news.
“He sent them to me. I got in touch and told him you were helping me out and that his pictures would ruin the whole bit.”
“I suppose I should thank you.”
“No,” Frings said. “I did it for selfish reasons. Thought you might want to know, though.”
They shook hands.
Frings thought of something. “Who’s Casper Prosnicki?”
Frings thought he heard Bernal gasp.
“You know him?” Frings pushed.
“Samuelson will explain. He will . . .” Bernal’s voice trailed off.
Frings waited, but the life seemed to have left Bernal. Frings turned and, without another word, headed back to the shore. He clenched the papers tightly against his chest and, the tension of the meeting now released, felt the true force of his fatigue. A figure brushed past him on the bridge. He stopped and turned, watching the man’s silhouette recede into the fog. Frings was indecisive, and before he’d figured out what to do, he heard someone—with the fog playing tricks with the sound he could not tell if it was Bernal or someone else—shout, “Who’s that?” A beat of silence was followed by a violent splash from below as something hit the river.
Frings turned and sprinted off the bridge, barely able to see where he was going. He stumbled twice, the panic getting him back on his feet and pushing the pain from his consciousness. He ran until he found himself in a residential neighborhood, unable to continue, his lungs burning for oxygen, his legs rubbery. He placed the papers on a stoop and sat on the steps with his head down, gasping for air.
He thought about what had taken place on the bridge. The man who brushed by him on the bridge now seemed familiar. A trick of hindsight? He wondered who it was and how this stranger had known about the meeting. He wondered if the stranger knew that he, Frings, had met with Bernal. Mostly, though, he wondered why Bernal hadn’t cried out as he jumped—or was pushed—from the bridge into the frigid waters of the river.
Unable to get this last thought from his mind, Frings stood unsteadily, put his hands on his knees, and retched until he had nothing more to give.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Nora lay on top of the sheets in white satin pajamas that she found in the bureau. Her wet hair dampened the pillow, coaxing the smell of soap from its fabric. She was, if not comfortable, at least beginning to have a better understanding of her situation, and she found this energizing and could not cross over into sleep.
Years of being the focus of attention of just about any man she encountered gave her a strong sense of a man’s intentions. Her captor was difficult to read. He was quiet and shy, often a good sign, though shyness was sometimes the product of intentions that a man knew were beyond societal bounds. That was why she had tested him with the bath.
She now believed that he would not harm her. He was smitten, but not in a way that would lead him to use force on her. He would not want her in any way that he did not feel was reciprocated honestly. This was her one advantage among all the disadvantages she faced; an advantage that she had already begun to use, but to what purpose she was still uncertain. She had sensed the tension as she brushed by him. The brief suggestion in his mind that she might actually fancy him as he fancied her. She could use this weapon against him. She needed to figure out how. Or maybe just having it would be enough.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Henry had to lift Siobhan off him to roll over to the phone. She began kneading his back, which was slick with sweat.
“What is it?” Henry’s annoyance was tempered by the knowledge that it had to be significant for anyone to ring him at this hour.
“Mr. Mayor,” said the doorman, “two men to see you, sir.”
“Names?”
“It’s your, uh . . .” There was a pause. “It’s your assistant and a man named Smith.”
“Send them up.” Henry felt the tension in his muscles against Siobhan’s strong fingers; the anticipation of bad news and the need for difficult and important decisions to be made.
He stood up and pulled the sheet from the bed, wrapping it around his waist. Siobhan, naked, lay back on the pillows and used both hands to brush the red hair from her face.
“A couple of boys are coming up,” Henry said to her. “Why don’t you curl up and get some sleep. I’ll wake you up when they’re gone.” He took a blanket that had been discarded to the floor and threw it over her. It was a relief to him to have her body covered. Modesty was not her strong suit.
Henry walked out to the living room to wait, listening to the grinding of the elevator gears. He smelled, he realized, of her and of sweat. His massive chest was mottled with red from exertion. He ran a hand over his scalp, feeling the prickly hairs just starting to emerge on the sides.
The elevator opened into the living room, and Peja and Smith hesitated before stepping out, balking at the sight of the mayor, naked except for the sheet around him, sitting in his oversize leather chair.
“What the hell are you waiting for?”
The two men entered and sat. Peja looked tired and miserable. Smith just looked worried.
Henry looked back and forth between the two men. “What in God’s name is going on? Why are you here?”
Smith began to speak, then thought better of it. Peja said, “Bernal’s dead.”
Henry turned his attention to Smith. “True?”
Smith nodded.
“Jesus Christ. What happened?” Henry leaned forward in his chair, glaring at Smith. “Goddamn it. Tell me you didn’t bump him.”
Smith was avoiding eye contact by staring over Henry’s shoulder. “I followed Bernal, like you said. A cab picked him up at his house a little after ten thirty and headed north. I found a cab, not so easy to do in his neighborhood, and the cabbie found Bernal’s cab and tailed it. The farther north we got, the foggier it got, so it was hard to keep the other cab in sight, but easy for us to stay hidden, if you follow. So he gets out of the cab—what?—about three blocks from the river. I make my cab go
past him and go right for another block before letting me off. Trying not to tip him, you know?
“I figured Bernal was going to the river, so I looped around. It was foggy as hell there. Barely see your hand in front of your face, you know? So even though I knew basically where he was, it was hard to be sure. So I found a spot just under the bridge and waited and listened. Then this other gink comes. I can hear him walking down towards the river and then stop, and then I can hear them, him and Bernal, having a chat. I couldn’t really make out what they were saying, so I thought about trying to get closer, and then they suddenly start coming up the hill towards me. So I kind of hid behind this pillar, even though there’s really no need because the fog is so thick.
“Anyway, they go up on the bridge, and I follow as close as I can, you know, trying not to make noise. So I get up there and I can hear them talking, but again, I can’t really make out what they’re saying. Then, like that, they’re done and someone is coming my way. So I just start walking towards them, like I’m out on a stroll. I walk past him and I realize that it’s goddamn Frankie Frings.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not. It was Frings. I just kept on walking until I came to Bernal. I can tell as I get close to him that he’s in a panic. You know how you can kind of tell?” Smith looked at Henry for confirmation, trying to get the mayor on his side. Henry nodded.
“Anyway, I get up real close so that he can see my face, so he knows who I am. Well, he gets a look and pulls away and takes a jump. He just threw himself over the railing and was gone.” Smith stopped and looked at Henry, who was rubbing the sides of his face with both hands.
“What were they talking about?”
“Like I said, I don’t know.”
“What would you guess?”
“Jesus, Mayor, I have no idea. It could have been anything.”
“And, Peja, why are you here? Are you his insurance that I don’t kill him?”
Peja laughed nervously. “No, sir. We figured you’d probably want something done.”