“Billy,” Walter said into the cell phone. “I need you. It’s important, my friend.”
“Name it,” said Billy.
“Come to my house . . .”
“I’m there already. Ten minutes?”
“Make it a half-hour. Come prepared.”
“Understood,” Billy answered without missing a beat. “You okay till then?”
“I’m fine. Thirty minutes.” He slapped the phone shut and put it back in his pocket, looked at Tucker Poesy, motioned to Denise to give the girl some water. “Put a bathrobe on her,” he said. Denise went downstairs and returned with one of her own. When Tucker Poesy’s dignity was partially restored, Walter rose, turned and went to the kitchen. When he returned he was munching a Granny Smith apple.
“I’ll talk. You listen,” he said. “When I’m wrong, you correct me. Do you understand?” Tucker Poesy shook her head appropriately. “If you were in Central Station, you were also on the train. That means you were in Bergen op Zoom, weren’t you?” Again she shook her head, yes. “No way you could have known I would be in Bergen op Zoom unless you followed me. You did know I was coming to Holland. You had to know that. You were at the airport. You followed me. I led you to Harry Levine. You followed us both to Amsterdam.” He leaned toward her to see if she was hurt worse than he thought. She was not. “You haven’t said anything. I’m right, so far?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Where did you come from?”
“London.”
“Good,” said Walter. “Good.”
“What’s good?”
“It’s good you’re telling me the truth, right away. I hate it when people don’t cooperate. So,” he continued, “someone told you I was on my way to Holland and you arranged to be there when I arrived. You had plenty of time. My flight would take eight or nine hours. London is a short hop.” He was watching her injured face carefully. The muscles in her cheeks were relaxed. There was a swelling on the left side, a big one, and her lip had been cracked at its outer edge. The bleeding had subsided. Only a little drip at the corner of her mouth still ran. The lines in her forehead showed no unusual disturbance. He asked, “How long have you known Louis Devereaux?” No sooner had he asked that, than everything in Tucker Poesy’s face changed. She didn’t know it, but he did. He could see her thinking of an answer and finally giving in to the simple truth.
“A few years,” she said.
“I looked at your gun,” Walter said, holding it up. “Israeli. Hard to find, I think. You don’t see too many of these.” She said nothing. She knew she didn’t have to acknowledge everything Walter said. “You don’t follow people. That’s for sure,” he said with a laugh. “You don’t follow people if you carry a unique and very dangerous weapon. What do you do?”
“Kill.”
“Good,” said Walter, holding her pistol in his hands, examining it. “I don’t mean it’s good you kill—you kill people I assume—I mean it’s good you’re telling me. I respect that.”
“Bullshit,” she mumbled.
“Huh?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“What did you say?” Walter said. “Fuck me? Fuck you! This is my house!” he bellowed. “You came into my house! You’re lucky I didn’t kill you. You’re lucky I don’t kill you now.” He wanted to reach out and grab her swollen jaw. It was hard to restrain himself. He needed a moment. Finally, he looked at her, naked except for a bathrobe thrown over her like a light blanket. “Keep your fucking mouth shut,” he said.
“Clothes. My clothes,” she whimpered.
“No,” Walter said sternly. “You’re fine the way you are.” He heard her curse him again as he walked away.
When Billy arrived, Tucker Poesy could see the two men talking. Walter gestured, pointed to her out on the deck. He was still unnerved, angry, his raw edge showing. She took note that Billy registered no surprise or shock. He removed a gun from his belt and showed it to Walter, then shoved it back in his pants. Here she was tied to a chair, barely covered, otherwise completely naked, legs spread apart and this guy just glanced at her and then returned his attention to Walter. Shit! she said to herself. A professional!
The two men talked for another minute or two and Billy left. Walter returned to the deck where she had pushed aside most of the cobwebs clouding her brain and regained her sense that she was buried neck-high in shit and had not the slightest idea how to extricate herself. Not yet, anyway.
“Billy will be back to get you,” Walter said. “He just went to get a piece of equipment he needs to move you in that chair.”
“What? You can’t keep me in this chair . . . like this.”
“When he does come back, he’ll take you somewhere else. If you keep your mouth shut, you won’t be gagged. If you make noise, we’ll tape your mouth too. So, if you’re going to fuck around, get ready to breathe through your nose. Billy will keep you until I’m done.”
“Like . . . this?”
“Someone will feed you. If they feel up to it, you’ll be taken to use the toilet. It’ll be a hardship. You’ll be hosed down to stay clean.” Tucker Poesy looked at Walter in disbelief. Fear crept over her like red ants on a helpless grasshopper, some pinning the poor insect down, others boring into its head, eating it alive. “You’ll be alive,” he said. “But not much more.”
When the telephone rang, Sadie Fagan was preparing dinner. She was also watching the Six O’Clock News on channel 2. She gathered a bunch of long celery stalks on a wooden cutting board, sliced them into small pieces and threw the pieces into the same bowl where she had already put shredded carrots and cut cucumbers. Then she looked around for a green pepper. The local TV anchorwoman had her serious face on. She reported on a home invasion in one of Atlanta’s finest neighborhoods, Inman Park. No one was injured, but a man named Otto Heinrich, a violinist for the famed Atlanta Symphony Orchestra, had been home when the break-in occurred. Nothing had been taken and Mr. Heinrich said the man who entered his house surprised him but said nothing. Police were investigating the incident and offered no more information at this time. She didn’t mention it, but the anchorwoman herself lived only a few blocks away from the scene of the crime. The touch of real fear in her eyes played well on screen. They cut to a reporter standing outside the violinist’s gable-roofed, Victorian-style house. It was already dark outside. Behind the reporter, the lights of neighboring homes could be seen twinkling through the leaves and branches of the tree-lined block. Inman Park always had that gingerbread look about it. The television camera caught a street scene of bucolic splendor, right there in the middle of the city. A home invasion? Sadie was mortified. How could such a thing happen—there? It was almost as if it happened in her subdivision. When the reporter, a lovely young woman with perfect hair threw it back to the studio, the anchorwoman, still appropriately grim, wrapped the piece with the news that Mr. Heinrich was the husband of Isobel Gitlin, Executive Director of the Center for Consumer Concerns. Isobel’s fifteen minutes ended a while ago, and she was glad of it. Apparently beyond her control, a residue lingered. Isobel Gitlin? Sadie had heard the name, but couldn’t place it. Anyway, the phone rang. She turned from the TV, wiped her hands dry with a paper towel, and answered it. She never heard the anchorwoman say, “Isobel Gitlin will be remembered, of course, for the pivotal role she played in the Leonard Martin affair.”
“Hello,” said Sadie.
“Aunt Sadie, it’s me.”
“Harry! Where are you, my darling? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Aunt Sadie. Really, I am. I wanted you to know everything’s going to be all right. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Worry? Me? Oh, Harry, it’s so good to hear your voice.”
“I would have called sooner, but things have been kind of hectic. I’ve been traveling.”
“I know, dear,” said Sadie, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her kitchen apron. “I spoke with Chita. She told me. And I met Mr. Sherman. He found you? And you’re safe now?”
“How long will you be there?” she asked. “What’s going to happen with all this?”
“I can’t say, Aunt Sadie. I don’t know. Chita said to trust Walter Sherman, and I do. I am.”
“I love you, Harry.”
“I love you too. I really shouldn’t talk too long.” Walter had warned him not to use the phone at all. “Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me again for a while.”
“Have you spoken with your Aunt Chita?”
“No, not since we got here. I’ll try her, but you know she’s tough to get a hold of. If you talk to her first, tell her I’m all right and tell her I love her. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” Sadie hung the phone up thinking about her brother David. Missing, what a terrible word. It had no ending. David would always be missing. It broke Sadie’s heart, all these years later. He had never seen his son. Never held him as a baby. Never rocked him to sleep when his belly hurt. Never . . . She started crying all over her vegetables.
Earlier in the day, a few minutes after nine that morning, a tall, well-dressed, middle-aged man walked into the lobby of building number two at Atlanta’s Colony Square complex on Peachtree at 14th Street. He rode an elevator to the seventh floor, where he made his way to the reception area at the Center for Consumer Concerns. He smiled at the receptionist and said, “Isobel Gitlin, please. Christopher Hopman to see her.” A moment later the girl at the front desk looked up, with concern written all over her face, and asked, “Mr. Hopman? Mr. Christopher Hopman, is that right?”
“Yes, it is,” the man answered, still smiling and keeping a respectful distance from the reception desk, allowing the girl to talk into her phone with some assurance of privacy. She did just that, then took the phone, and pressing her other hand over the mouthpiece, said, “I’m sorry, Ms. Gitlin has no Christopher Hopman on her schedule.”
“Please tell Ms. Gitlin I’m here because of Walter Sherman.” The smile was still there, warm, friendly, engaging. He was a handsome man, the receptionist thought. Finally, after one last whispered phone conversation, she said, “Someone will be right out to show you in.”
Isobel had no idea what this could be about. In her years as a reporter with The New York Times, she had fine-tuned an attention to words, a deep respect for language. “Words have meaning, don’t they?” a Times editor once said to her. “There’s no need for you to answer that, is there?” he immediately added. “Or, for that matter, that question either. Why? Because my words meant something and you understood their meaning as soon as I said them. That should be your goal for everything you write. Your reader should never wonder ‘what did she mean.’” The man calling himself Christopher Hopman—that absolutely could not be his name—said he was here because of Walter Sherman. He did not say Walter had sent him. For just a second she wondered if she should have alerted Security.
“Ms. Gitlin, pleased to meet you,” the man said. Apparently the smile had been pasted on with epoxy. He extended his hand. Isobel stood; they shook hands. It started like any normal business meeting.
“What’s your name?” Isobel asked. The man’s smile opened to a polite chuckle. “You can’t be Christopher Hopman because he was killed, shot down on a golf course outside Boston, by . . . ?”
“I’ll take your word for that,” he said.
“By . . . ?” Isobel repeated.
“I believe a man named Leonard Martin confessed to that murder, among others.”
“So, what is your name and why are you here? What does this have to do with Walter Sherman? He didn’t send you, did he?”
“No, he didn’t send me. He is, however, responsible for my visit. As for my name, that’s not important.”
“Well, you can get the hell out of here!”
“I represent some people who need to know where Mr. Sherman took Harry Levine. They believe you know where that is.”
“What are you talking about? Who the hell is Harry Levine? Get the fuck out of here!”
“Calm down, Ms. Gitlin. This is a very serious matter. You need to hear what I have to say. You also need to provide me with whatever information you have that might be helpful. This is, I assure you, not a matter to be taken lightly.” He paused, removed his coat, which he carefully laid down on the chair next to him and then pulled his seat forward, directly across from her. She said nothing more, which he took to be agreement on her part, at least to pay attention. He looked her in the eye and spoke with an ease of manner that, considering what he said, was more than a little frightening.
“Harry Levine—you don’t know Mr. Levine, or so it would appear—is in the company of Mr. Sherman. To be frank, Mr. Sherman is hiding him. The people I work for desire to talk to Mr. Levine. I have no idea why—they didn’t feel a need to tell me, and that’s fine with me. I am little more than a facilitator in this matter. As you have already guessed, Leonard Martin fits in here too. My employers believe that Mr. Sherman has taken Mr. Levine to whatever location Leonard Martin used during that period of time when he was avoiding the rest of the world, including the authorities. If that’s so, if that is where he is, everyone agrees Harry Levine can’t and won’t be found. Not without help, anyway. Your help, Ms. Gitlin.”
“I have no . . .”
“Please stop,” the man said, sounding less like an unnamed menace and more like an Assistant Principal who knows he’s about to be regaled with a tale something akin to, “an elephant ate my homework.” “We do not want to begin this way,” he said. “I certainly don’t want to, and I don’t believe you really want to either. Lies are uncalled for. They’re counterproductive. Of course you know where this location is. That is not in question. Actually, there is no question here. I am merely trying to be polite by asking you. You have to tell me. You are the only one. We—and now I include you too—we are aware that Walter Sherman is a man, a very capable man, a man with numerous resources. He will tell us nothing and there’s an element of risk even approaching him. That leaves only you, Ms. Gitlin.”
“They can’t pay you enough to go after Walter, can they?” Isobel angrily interrupted.
“So,” he continued, “we’re asking you. My employer will not stop at asking.”
“You can’t hurt me!”
“No, no, no. You misunderstand me. Please. I never meant to say you would be hurt in any way.” For some reason Isobel breathed easier. Why, she asked herself, do I think I’ve won something? “Is that a picture of you and your husband?” he asked, pointing to a cube-framed photo on her desk. “Your husband, Otto Heinrich, plays with the Atlanta Symphony, doesn’t he?” Isobel’s sense of satisfaction left her as quickly and completely as her last breath. “A violinist, right? I’m told he plays beautifully. A man like that must have exceptional fingers, especially on his left hand. Isn’t that right? How does he manage to care for his hands, his fingers? Exercise? Warm water and soap? Custom-made gloves? Some sort of special lotion, probably. I could never know. You do, of course. Tell me about his hands.”
“No,” said Isobel in a voice no louder than a whimper.
“A man like your husband has to make sure nothing happens to his hands. I guess they’re as much a part of his instrument as . . . as the bow.”
“Y-y-you can’t . . .”
She had never been there, but she knew where it was. Long ago, Walter told her. He told her about his drive from Santa Fe, up into the mountains near Albert, New Mexico, near the Indian forest. She remembered his description of the cabin, even the road leading to it. He met Michael DelGrazo there—Leonard Martin, the Cowboy with the floppy hat. She had never b
een there, but she knew exactly where it was. She paid the taxes on the property. Each year since Leonard Martin walked off into the void. She paid the electricity. The water bill. The Center cut the checks. She never questioned the expense. It was, after all, Leonard Martin who founded the institution she headed. She was following his instructions. Would Leonard ever return? Is he even alive? She didn’t know. Who did? Walter? The genial, well-groomed imitation of a businessman, sitting in front of her, was totally correct. She knew where it was, yet her natural inclination was to tell this thug to go fuck himself. My God! she thought, Otto!
Washington, that was where Walter was headed. Headed to Devereaux. To Devereaux, whose arrogance had so unhinged him in Atlanta. And now—the sonofabitch sent someone into his home! There was a late flight out of St. Thomas he could still catch. It would take him to Miami. He’d stay over there and fly to Washington in the morning. He knew he would be calm by then, calmer anyway. Passing the cruise ships, on the long cab ride from the St. Thomas ferry dock to the airport, the sight of those massive floating resort hotels, all done up in pastels, blue and sea green, yellows and light shades of red, towering like buildings many stories above the water, he realized his blood pressure had gone from a boil to a simmer sooner than he expected. A few minutes later his cell phone rang as he waited in the airport.
“Yes,” he said.
“Walter, Walter,” came a familiar voice, with an unfamiliar tone. It jolted his awareness to a sharp point. The frustration and anger he felt about Devereaux and his hired girl was counterproductive. He knew that and was grateful for the intrusion. It was Isobel Gitlin’s voice he heard.
“Yes,” he said, hoping his hurt pride was not showing too much.
“I had no choice,” she said. Was she crying or coughing? Did he hear the sound of a stuffy nose, a simple cold or something else? “It was Otto. Otto.” Definitely crying, thought Walter. He decided to let her cry it out. He waited.
“Walter, I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do. They took Otto and threatened to c-c-cut off the fingers! B-b-break his hands. His arms. His elbows. Oh, my god! I’m sorry, Walter. I’m sorry. Otto, he could never play again. They came to our house, into our house. Walter. I had to.”
The Lacey Confession Page 28