by Andrew Gross
He chuckled. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I’m not.”
His eyes drifted down to my moccasins. “People who come to pitch in don’t usually show up in Tod’s. Dead giveaway.”
“Oh.” I nodded guiltily. “Anyway, they’re not. Tod’s. Tod’s knockoffs maybe.”
“Anyway, you look like you should be volunteering up in Greenwich or Rye or something. Not that that’s so bad. So what’s up? You actually look familiar.” He stared at me. “Why do I think I’ve seen you somewhere before?” My hair was pulled back and I had only a hint of makeup on.
“I was at the funeral,” I said.
He slowly nodded. Then he jabbed his index finger at me. “That’s where it was. You were in one of the back rows. I remember.”
“That’s pretty good under the circumstances. I’m really sorry about what happened to your dad.”
“Thanks. He was a good guy. So you knew him then?” He smiled. “People he worked with generally don’t wear Tod’s either. Or the knockoffs.”
“No. I didn’t know him.” I took another sip and drew in a steadying breath. “I was actually at the accident site.”
He blinked. That seemed to take him totally by surprise. “Up in Westchester . . . ?”
I nodded.
“Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. So you’re from up there?”
“Armonk.”
“Ah, now I get the shoes.” He rotated his coffee cup. “I actually didn’t know there was anyone else at Pop’s accident site. Just this one guy . . .”
“Rollie,” I answered for him. “Roland McMahon.”
Now he nodded. “My sister spoke with him. Now that I think of it, maybe he did mention someone else being with him there at first.”
I waited to see if that seemed to mean anything to him. If the friendliness in his eyes suddenly shifted to suspicion. If behind them was the question of where the hell half a million dollars had gone that was in his father’s possession at the time of his death.
I didn’t see anything.
“I know this is kind of weird,” I said, “but I don’t know if you heard . . . He died.”
“Yeah, we actually did hear that.” Patrick leaned his weight against a column. “Suicide, we were told. The police contacted us, to see if he’d maybe been in touch after our initial conversation. Which he hadn’t. Kind of a strange thing, though, given how he was ready to run down and help my dad, then not even a week later . . .” He shrugged. “So you were there?”
“Actually, I was there first,” I said, putting my own cup down on the railing. “I saw your father’s car go out of control. A deer ran in front of it. You probably already know that. But he was gone by the time I got down there. I’m sorry, I really wish there was something I could have done. I just couldn’t wait around. I have a son who I was late for and Rollie was there, so . . .” I shrugged. “There wasn’t much either of us could do.”
“No need to explain.” Patrick smiled. “I understand.” He sat down on the railing. “So I guess we’ve come to the part of the conversation as to what brings you all the way down here?”
We had. Did I just let it out right here? There was half a million dollars on the front seat that might have belonged to you, and I took it. This was the time. But Patrick didn’t seem to be fitting into any of my concerns. His demeanor hadn’t changed. He wasn’t probing me for details. I was also thinking he probably didn’t need to be going through this again so soon after the funeral.
“I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to let you know that I was there,” was all I said, feeling my courage ebb. “I was wondering if you ever figured out what your dad was doing up there? You mentioned at the funeral that you hadn’t?”
He looked at me. A liveliness in his warm blue eyes. Earnest, trusting. “No. We still don’t,” he said. “I was going to dig into it, then I figured, what would be the point? What happened, happened. He’d mentioned something about some building supply outfit he was going to see up there. For kitchen tile. Anyway, it may not look it, but what’s left here is still very much alive, and it’s pretty much taking up everything I have lately.”
“I can see that. It’s overwhelming.”
He shrugged. “At times it seems that way. You just do what you can. Anyway, look, I appreciate you trying to help up there. My dad would have been the first one to pitch in himself if it had happened to someone else.”
“So I heard.” I wanted to tell Patrick exactly why I’d come. Why I was at the funeral. But the words stuck in my throat. I suddenly felt panic, mixed in with a bit of shame. I felt if I stayed there any longer he’d see right through me. I realized that Patrick Kelty’s father was involved in something that his son knew nothing about. And there was likely nothing good connected to it. And the more I talked, the more it would come out. He didn’t need to hear it.
I felt I had to get out of there.
“Look, thanks for the coffee.” I stood up. “You’re busy. I probably should head on.”
“You’re not just being modest and you’re actually a whiz with a chain saw by any chance, are you?” He smiled.
“No. Wouldn’t know which end was the chain and which was the saw.”
“Figured. You didn’t exactly look the type. By all means come see us again if you ever do figure one out.”
“I will. Thanks for the coffee.” I went back down the stairs. I motioned to a ragged stuffed teddy bear that was perched on the steps of the front porch. “Night security?” I asked
Patrick smiled. “Keeps out the looters. I found him washed ashore in a pile of rubble. Happens every day down here.”
“What’s his name?” I put my hand over my eyes as Patrick was suddenly in the sun.
“Joe.” Patrick picked up the coffee cups and stacked them together. “He doesn’t say very much, so I named him after my dad.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Patrick watched her drive up the street until she disappeared around the corner.
He wasn’t sure just what had brought her down here. Maybe she felt guilty that she’d been unable to help his dad. Maybe just that she had been at the scene. On the job he’d encountered dozens of situations where witnesses would come back to the spot where a tragedy occurred. Or leave flowers when someone died, just to feel connected to it. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that she was holding something back. Whatever her reasons. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
The whirring of a chain saw inside stole back his attention. He took the cups and went to head back inside when someone called from the street. “Lootenant . . .”
Patrick turned, instantly knowing who it was from the gruff voice and familiar accent, his gaze falling on the black Range Rover that must have come up while he was talking to Hilary. Then on the large-shouldered man in the black leather jacket who stepped out of the passenger seat. Someone Patrick was not happy to see, and especially not here.
“No time for me?” Yuri asked, extending his upturned palms in a questioning manner. “And I come such long way.”
Patrick went down to the street, his blood simmering. He didn’t want him on the property. He didn’t want him anywhere in the entire neighborhood. He didn’t want to be seen with him, a Russian Vors as clear as any in the movies, on a collection call. Everyone within six square blocks knew Patrick worked for the NYPD. And you didn’t have to be a detective in organized crime to figure out who Yuri worked for.
“Girlfriend?” Yuri nodded with an approving roll of the eyes. “Very nice. Little too thin, perhaps. More to grab, more to love. You know that saying? I think you have here too, right?”
“Why the hell are you here?” Patrick went up to him.
“Why I am here?” The Ukrainian bunched his thick lips. “I want to take trip on the Staten Island Ferry. Boris has never seen Statue of Liberty. Why you think I am here? Another week. Not even dime. I told you last time, clock is ticking. Tick, tock. Tick, tock . . .”
“And I told you
then there are claims in the works and you’ll be paid. Maybe you heard that Congress just appropriated relief funds. When I get paid, you’ll be paid. I promise, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Government, eh?” Yuri grunted cynically. “At home we say little thieves are hanged, but great ones go into government. In a week, will be over hundred thousand dollars. You borrow from yourself? So tell me, Lieutenant, with what will you rebuild your house?”
“That’s my worry. Your worry is to back off and leave. You’ll be repaid.”
“No, that is not your big worry,” the Ukrainian said. “Big worry is that clock runs out and only way for you to repay is to make a call and poof, a particular case file disappears. Or maybe gun in evidence closet is no longer there. Or else, all hard work to rebuild house here and house goes up in ball of flames. Poof!” He snapped his fingers. “Know what I mean? That would be my worry, Patrick Kelty, if I were you.”
“I want you the hell out of here now.”
“Or what? You want to pick fight with me, Mr. Police Official? You want whole neighborhood to watch like on Showtime? Listen, we all know this debt is something you take on yourself. That it isn’t even your own. But now you own it, you understand? Now it’s yours, as much as if you went to Brighton Beach and set it up with Sergei Lukov yourself. And until is paid, I walk up those stairs and shit on living room carpet if that’s what I want to do. You understand me? I don’t see badge anywhere . . .” Yuri snorted. “Just hockey jersey. So right now, you are simply loan like anyone else. Loan no one is paying.”
They stood there for a moment, eye to eye. Yuri was right, the last thing Patrick needed was for people to see him here. Some of the volunteers on the street were cops, firemen. Explaining why this Vors from the old country with sleeves of tattoos up and down his arms was here threatening him would only bring on questions he didn’t need to answer.
And the Ukrainian was right on something else too. The last thing Patrick wanted was for them to settle the loan in “trade.” There was no badge on him right now. The NYPD was a million miles away.
“I hear you loud and clear,” Patrick said. “Now I just need you to get back in your car and drive out of here. Please . . .”
The Ukrainian looked at him. There was a spark of softening in his dull, heavy-lidded eyes. But not so much that he probably wouldn’t carry out everything he had said he would. He probably already had, as easily as having breakfast.
“You made me almost forget real reason I came. Sergei Lukov has heard that your father has died recently. Is this so?”
Patrick nodded. “Yes.”
“He was old man?”
“No.” Patrick shook his head. “Car accident.”
“Accident?” Yuri grunted wistfully. “You know saying, death always answers before it is asked? Very common in my work. Anyway, Sergei says no interest charged this week. A man in mourning should not have his mind on someone else’s debt.”
Patrick looked at Yuri. “Tell Sergei thank you,” he said.
Yuri swatted him on the shoulder. It fell with the weight of a diesel.
“You ever stop with the sayings?” Patrick asked as the mobster headed back to his SUV.
“Ha!” Yuri turned at the car door. “Here’s one more. Just because you not look at clock, doesn’t mean it stop ticking. You know what I mean? Next Thursday, clock starts up again. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick . . .
“I wish you and your family best.” He squeezed into the front seat. “But if I were you,” he said, snapping his fingers, “I would make sure those thieves in government work fast, Patrick Kelty.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I didn’t get far.
Just across the Verrazano Bridge and back into Brooklyn, where I took the first exit onto Dahlgren Place and just sat there, at a gas station, not sure what my next step was.
The question kept drumming inside me like a bass drum that wouldn’t stop.
Where the hell was I going? I had nowhere to go. After last night I was too scared to take my son home.
Where the hell would I even sleep tonight? In some hotel room, too scared and too uncertain to go back to my home, thinking of what happened to Rollie and my ring? Not just today, but tomorrow. And the day after that. And Brandon . . . ? Hide him at Elena’s indefinitely? Praying that I hadn’t put the person I loved most in the world in danger? Or take him down to Florida and leave him with my folks?
I was pretty certain Patrick knew nothing about the cash his old man had with him in the car. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t go after him too. That he wouldn’t be the next one on the list who was put in danger. And he wouldn’t even know why. Like Rollie. He could have a gun jammed in his mouth and be tied to a chair and he wouldn’t have a clue in the world as to what he was dying for.
I couldn’t do that.
I sat there for a while, watching people go in and out, mothers running behind their kids. Workmen getting out of their trucks.
Until I came to the conclusion I’d reached earlier this morning when I’d driven down. That I had to give back the money. It was more Patrick’s anyway than mine. I’d have to come clean and face the consequences, wherever they led.
Maybe I just wanted a partner in this.
Maybe I just wanted a way I could work this out.
Close to an hour passed before I drove back over the bridge again to Baden Avenue. I stopped at the top of the street and asked myself one last time if I was okay with what I was about to do. Because everything could change. The answer inside me grew firmer and more certain.
I was.
I had to be.
I drove back down to his house and left my car across the street. I stepped up to the porch, and smiled at the teddy bear guarding the top step. “Joe.” I knocked on the front door and stepped in the house. Someone in work clothes stuck his head out of the kitchen.
“Patrick here?”
“He’s in the back,” the workman said above the whine of a power sander. “You can go on in.”
I walked through the basically gutted house. There were some new walls being framed, and new windows hammered in. Patrick was on the back deck, nailing down two-by-fours on the newly elevated platform. The sun shone off New York Bay, almost right out the back door. Patrick looked up when he saw me, his eyes brightening. “So you know how to work a chain saw after all?”
“No.”
“Okay, how are you with a hammer then? I see you’re still wearing the same shoes . . .”
“I need to talk with you, Patrick,” I said, my voice slightly cracking.
He stood up and lifted his baseball cap, brushing some sweat off his brow. “Wasn’t that what we just did?”
“I wasn’t truthful with you, what I said before. About why I was down here. Is there somewhere we can go?”
“You mean, like, to a place?”
“I mean like anywhere, Patrick, please. Just out of the cold. Away from all the noise.”
Now I was sure he could see the anxiety in my eyes. “There’s Red’s. Up on Hylan.”
“That’ll be fine. Can we go there? It’s important. Please.”
“Sure.” He nodded, placing his hammer on a bench. “I’ll just tell the guys.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Red’s wasn’t much—a neighborhood bar with a Molson light in the window and a couple of TV screens over the bar. Where a hockey game would feel at home, and on Friday nights the familiar crowd would be knocking back a couple of beers.
Patrick waved to the white-haired guy in a white shirt behind the bar. He also gave a hug to the heavyset waitress, saying, “Hey, Steph, somewhere quiet, okay . . .”
It felt like he had known her for years.
She took us to a booth near the back and we sat down across from each other. He said, “I’ve been coming here since I was just past altar boy. On Sundays, my father would sneak us beers for Giants games.”
Steph started to rattle off a couple of specials, to which Patrick told he
r, “Just some drinks.” I asked for an iced tea, though a martini would have felt more like it. Patrick ordered a Diet Coke. We waited until they came. We didn’t say much. There was only one other couple in the bar. When the drinks arrived, Patrick kind of leaned his glass forward. “So here we are . . . You said you had something to say.”
I nodded, leaning back against the cushioned booth. “I said I hadn’t been entirely honest with you,” I started in, “about why I came down here. I was at the scene when your father went off the road. And I did go down and do my best to help him before Rollie appeared. I could see he was badly hurt. I tried to revive him, but I couldn’t get a response. I tried to get him out, but the driver’s door was wedged in by a tree, so I ran around to the passenger side. That was when Rollie hollered. I told him to call 911—I’d left my phone in my car. That took a while.”
Patrick took a sip of soda and waited for me to go on. “Okay.”
“I crawled inside the car and tried to get a response, but I couldn’t. I’m sure he was already dead. But there was something on the seat next to him. Not on the seat actually—on the floor. A black leather satchel. Slightly open. It was clearly knocked off the seat in the crash.”
“What was in it?” Patrick asked.
I looked at him, knowing the next word out of my mouth was going to change things. “Money.”
The word fell off my lips like a weight, and I could see Patrick, his eyes both confused and surprised, trying to reconcile his dad being up there in the middle of nowhere on some mission he never disclosed, his dad who worked his whole life in the MTA transit tunnels, with a satchel full of cash.
“How much money?”
I didn’t say. “Look, here’s where I have to tell you some things about myself.” My hands edged forward to his side of the table. “I was married. My husband and I have been divorced for four years. I have a son. Brandon. He’s a terrific kid, he’s just . . . He’s just got some developmental issues.” I shrugged. “Asperger’s . . .
“But there’s a very gray line where Asperger’s ends and full-out autism begins,” I went on, before he could interrupt me. “And that’s where Brandon is. He demands a lot of attention. For the past three years I’ve had him in this special school in Greenwich and he’s doing great. It’s just . . . It’s just very expensive. Almost fifty grand a year. And my ex . . .” I took in a breath and shook my head. “All I can say is, if you met him you’d think he’s about the nicest guy in the world, but he’s a little short when it comes to the financial responsibility department . . . And a month ago his construction company went belly up.”