The Dreaming Tree

by Matthew Mather

  He had taken his passport with him and withdrawn fifty thousand in cash from Chase Manhattan, half of which he’d given to Angel the day before. The rest, he’d hidden at the apartment. He had a thousand in cash on him—enough to buy some serious drugs. And if he was really being honest …

  “Hey, man, you got some …” The gaunt-faced kid with the swaying Afro skipped in front of him again, stopping in midsentence as he recognized him.

  “My Ferrari’s in the shop, too,” Roy said, keeping his pace.

  “Little hot for a scarf, ain’t it?”

  Roy didn’t reply.

  “You looking for something, bro?”

  Roy hesitated but shook his head and kept walking.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.” He kept moving.

  Looking for something? asked the voice in Roy’s head. Sure as hell.

  He had originally planned to rent a room at a hotel in Times Square, where he could melt into the obscurity of the crowds there, but somehow he’d ended up in the east of the East Village, getting off at the Delancey subway station and letting his feet lead him. Walked up and down the blocks until he saw the rental sign. After getting the keys, he’d gone out yesterday to meet Angel, then come back and slept. He got up in the morning just long enough to get a coffee and doughnut from the bodega and then slept like a dead person all day. He left his exo-suit plugged in to charge it all the way and put the spare battery in his backpack. A down-at-the-heels Six Million Dollar Man.

  There was another reason he had circled back around the park, though.

  Someone was watching him. A lurking figure just out of sight.

  Did his wife have someone following him? It wasn’t out of the question. He had just hired a private investigator to look into her, after all, and he was the one going off the ranch. Or maybe it was Dr. Danesti. The man had a lot invested. Whoever it was, they were good at their job. A shadow just out of sight.

  Roy took an abrupt turn onto the gravel path that led to the southeast corner of the park, and then exited onto Avenue B, past Sixth Street, where community gardeners were busy pulling up their last winter harvests of potatoes and carrots. A homeless man had his hand out in front of a CVS pharmacy, his dog curled up beside him. Roy looked over his shoulder, then ducked inside. He went up and down the aisles, looking for dog food, but really looking outside to see who was following him. He found the pet-care aisle, bought a small bag of kibble, and left the store. He looked left and right, up and down the street. Nothing. He stopped for a minute to feed the dog, left the bag with the panhandler, and took an alleyway north.

  He wound up and down the side streets, stealing glances behind him where he could. He hid behind a dumpster on a Second Street construction site, then leaped out. A woman carrying a bag of groceries shrieked and spilled three oranges, which Roy picked up right away, apologizing profusely all the while, saying he thought she was someone else. Up and down the alleyways, always looking over his shoulder.

  Twilight dimmed to evening. Whoever it was, he had lost them.

  His breath came in and out in heaving gasps. He hadn’t realized he was running. He ran a hand through his hair, which was soaked with sweat. Still warm and humid in November. He had lost track of where he was. He looked up, squinting in the semidarkness. He wasn’t sure what street he was on. A neon sign buzzed and clicked over his head.

  What did it say?

  “Inn.”

  The light flickered off and back on.

  The “Never Inn.”

  Off again. Then on, bathing him in blue neon light. It was a walk-up, the stairs to the hotel right in front of him. Another neon sign in the window. “No vacancy,” it said in glowing red letters. Roy stood immobile. The Never Inn. Had he been here before? Never. He’d never even been to this part of Manhattan before.

  He checked his watch. “Damn it.”

  * * *

  Roy nudged and sidled his way to the bar, past a bearded hipster in a lumber jacket talking to a spindly-legged woman in a loose gray dress and laced-up Converse high-tops. A muscled bartender in a tight pleated white shirt asked him what he wanted.

  “A beer,” Roy yelled over the noise. What kind? Whatever, something blond. The bartender nodded.

  The guy had on a bow tie and suspenders, his head shaved on one side but the long brown hair on the other side combed over—the speakeasy Viking of Death and Company bar on Second Street. Roy introduced himself to the bartender, who said his name was Alex and then plunked the foam-topped glass on the counter.

  Roy had already stopped for a quick drink on the walk here and was half an hour late.

  He took a long swig of his beer—God, it was good—before looking around. Maybe she had left already? He realized he’d only half-glimpsed her when he first saw her. Would he recognize her?

  “Mr. Lowell-Vandeweghe. Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”

  Someone tapped Roy’s shoulder, and he turned, glass still in hand. There stood a dark-skinned woman with full lips, a broad, smiling face, and a sprinkling of freckles over her nose and cheeks. Intelligent hazel eyes, though slightly tired-looking, he noticed. Her black hair was cut short, and she wore civilian clothes: a green tank top and jeans, with dangling square-hoop silver earrings. Attractive. Young. He glanced down. Nice shoes.

  He switched his drink to his right hand, then back to his left so he could shake hands. It made for two confusing seconds.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Detective Devlin.”

  17

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” Delta Devlin said.

  She gripped Roy’s hand firmly and pumped twice. The guy didn’t offer her a limp-fish handshake the way some men did. She despised that, as if it were a tacit deference to the “weaker sex.” Then again, some people just had weak handshakes. From a young age, her father had taught her to shake hands as if you meant it. Do everything as if you meant it.

  Good handshake. She liked that.

  “Sorry for being late,” Roy said.

  “Not a problem. I just got here, too.”

  That wasn’t quite true.

  She had arrived at the Death and Company bar an hour before they were supposed to meet. She scouted it out, watched the patrons, and found a second-floor coffee shop across the street, where she could wait. She’d watched Roy walk up Second Street, not from the direction of the closest subway. He was late but walked fast, which meant he cared about being late. Not just being lazy. No cab. He had walked. No driver following him. Was he coming from somewhere local?

  He also kept pretending to window-shop, so he could check for a possible tail.

  He stood five-nine or -ten—a good three inches taller than she—with thick, well-proportioned shoulders. Looked as though he did a lot of cross-fit training, not like someone who had just been through a massive surgery. She had scanned his social media from before the accident, and he looked as though he’d lost fifty pounds of fat but gained most of that in muscle. Square jaw. Attractive. Except …

  Those glassy eyes. The green seemed unstuck somehow.

  Was he drunk?

  Or high?

  Or might it be something else?

  “Maybe we can find a quieter place to talk?” She gave the slightest tilt of her head toward a corner in the back, away from the speakers and the growing after-work crowd.

  “Sure,” Roy said. “Can I get you a drink?”

  Technically, she wasn’t on the job, and she wanted him relaxed. Besides, it wasn’t polite to let someone drink alone. “Vodka soda, with a lime. But let me pay.”

  “Oh, no, I insist. Please. I was late.” He turned and called out the bartender’s name.

  She had waited and watched outside for a few minutes after Roy entered the bar. He came alone. No lawyer, no wife or friend. From the way he had checked his six coming up the street, she wondered
whether he was being followed, but she hadn’t seen anyone.

  Even after she went in, she had hung back for a minute. Watched him order a beer, introduce himself to the bartender. Friendly guy. A beer drinker. Down to earth? Or liked to think of himself that way, at least? Didn’t seem pretentious. He didn’t order a fancy cocktail or ask for some rare scotch, and he didn’t seem to care which beer he got, either. So either easygoing or an alcoholic.

  He turned back to her with a tumbler. The vodka soda.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  His hands. They looked like a fighter’s, the knuckles swollen as if with underlying scar tissue or something, and she couldn’t help staring at the color. To her, his arms and hands were completely different from his face, as different as red and green. To everyone else, it would look basically the same, but to her … She blinked and looked away.

  “After you,” Roy said, gesturing with his arm toward the back of the bar.

  That, she didn’t mind. Just because she liked a firm handshake didn’t mean she felt put off when a guy opened a door for her. Chivalry needn’t be altogether dead. A man could still be a man, and a woman a woman, as long as the respect was there.

  She led the way, squeezing past the other patrons.

  Roy followed.

  She felt his eyes on her.

  They sat at the back on wooden benches, facing each other over a table. He had checked his phone a few times already—a bad habit nearly everyone had. He put his phone facedown on the table.

  “I heard your partner call you ‘Del’ when you came to the house,” Roy said over the noise. His eyes scanned the crowd before he looked at her. “That short for something?”

  “Delta.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Delta—that’s my first name.”

  “Delta Devlin? Sounds more like a musician than a detective.”

  “I think that’s actually what my mother wanted. I’ve never really liked the name Delta Devlin, to be honest.” It couldn’t hurt to share something personal, see if this opened him up. “And please, you can call me Del, too. This is informal. Not official.”

  When he had called her out of the blue yesterday, he said he was in the city. She had said maybe it would be better if they got a drink, kept it casual, unofficial. She said she didn’t want to bother him but she did appreciate him calling her back. Said it wasn’t serious, that she just had a few questions—and also something she thought might interest him.

  Roy picked up his beer and downed two, three, mouthfuls before putting it down empty. “Beats having your parents name you Royce Buckminster Lowell.”

  She grinned. “That sounds like a bit of a rich man’s problem.”

  “We’re not rich.”

  Odd. That seemed like a sore spot. “I was kidding.”

  “I know, I know,” Roy said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. “The world’s tiniest violin, being played just for me.” He flagged the waiter for another drink.

  “Sorry, that wasn’t fair,” Del said. Something about him was off. A bit flippant. “I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through. But it has to have been a very difficult time, Mr. Lowell-Van—”

  “How about ‘Buck’?”

  “Buck? Ah, right, Buckminster, your middle name?”

  “Named after my uncle Buck, my dad’s younger brother. He died when they were kids.”

  “His younger brother was named Buckminster?”

  “Just Buck, like I said. My father insisted on the middle name Buck when I was born, but my mother was horrified. Refused to name her son like a redneck. He suggested Buckminster instead. Sounds stuffy as hell, which my mother liked, and my dad could shorten it. My dad made his fortune himself—grew up coal-miner poor in West Virginia.”

  That explained a few things. “And everyone calls you Buck?”

  “Only my dad, and he’s been dead twenty years.” The beer arrived, and Roy thanked the waiter before taking two more big gulps. “Roy, just call me Roy.”

  Del took a sip of her drink. “Can I be frank?”

  “If I can be Roy.” A half a beat later, he added, “Sorry, that was dumb. I guess I’m a bit nervous.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Del asked. She looked straight into his eyes. A little bloodshot, but not exactly drunk. “I mean, are you supposed to be away from home? Is this safe for you? After the operation, and all?” She paused. “Are you taking painkillers?”

  “Am I under investigation for something?”

  “Like I said, this is unofficial.”

  He leveled a steady gaze at her. “Did you have me followed today?”

  This question blindsided her. She rocked back on the bench. “Absolutely not.”

  “Did my wife ask you to find me?”

  “Why would she do that? Are you hiding from your wife?”

  “Why did you come by the house that day?”

  “We were looking for a missing woman.”

  “And you just showed up there on the day I came back from the hospital?”

  “Someone called in a sighting. On your street. We weren’t targeting you personally.”

  Roy leaned back on the bench and drank another third of his beer. He seemed to be sizing her up. His eyes narrowed. She took another sip of her drink, stopping to hold the glass against her face. It was hot in here.

  “Why did you ask to see me, then?” Roy asked.

  “I wanted to talk to you away from your wife.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I called twice, and she sent me to your lawyer both times.”

  “You called twice?”

  “Then I got a call from Captain Harris telling me to stop bothering you. I’m not here officially, you understand? You called me, asked to speak with me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Did you talk to Atticus?”

  “Your lawyer, Atticus Cargill? He never called me back, either.”

  “So I’m not under investigation for anything?”

  What was he so worried about? “No, one hundred percent. Nothing.”

  He seemed satisfied this time. He took another sip of his drink, a smaller one this time, and looked around the room. A few seconds passed. So far, his face hadn’t betrayed anything other than worry. Stress. It had cooled outside, but the heat indoors was turned high. He had on a heavy sweater, and a scarf still pulled snug around his neck. He had to be hot, sweating.

  She figured the scarf was to hide the neck scar.

  But not all scars were as easy to hide.

  “You know, I also have some experience being half one thing and half another—in a way, two things stuck together.”

  “How’s that?”

  “My dad is Irish, full-blooded, off the boat. Lived in Ulster until he was twenty and came here with nothing but the shirt on his back.”

  Roy considered that. “Devlin … right. You ever go back with him?”

  “Not once, even when I begged him. And my mother is Creole, from Louisiana. Those are two very different worlds. My mother called me Delta, to always remind me where that half of me came from.”

  “The Mississippi Delta.”

  “Easy, right? And my dad liked ‘Del’ because it’s a bit Irish, too—at least, Gypsy Irish, which his grandmother was. Means ‘giver.’ So I’m never quite sure what, exactly, I am. Half one thing and half another, while not really one of anything.”

  “So you’re part Gypsy, too? Quite the mixture.” Roy stared past her, at the window beneath an orange neon sign for Stroh’s beer.

  “Did you get a lot of support from your family?” she asked.

  “My wife, of course.” Still he stared past her. “My mother … She only made things worse, I think. She was worried about money, about herself more than me. Maybe that’s not fair. It was my friend Sam who was
the most help.”

  “Sam?”

  “Phipps. Family’s a big booze distributor.”

  The name seemed to ring a bell somewhere in the back of Del’s mind. Some rich guy she’d read about, maybe? “And when I came to your door—they’d just sent you home that day? Your first day out?”

  “We did outings before that.” Roy still seemed to be off somewhere else. “Field trips. Like in school.” His gaze returned to her. “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Just interested.”

  “So what was so important that you called me twice? You said you had something you thought would interest me.”

  Del sucked the last drops of her drink from the ice cubes. “You were medevacked by helicopter to Stony Brook Hospital, up in our neck of Suffolk County. Might be East Hampton PD’s case, but the medical examiner was ours. I pulled the report from your accident.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “I’m a detective—it’s what I do.”

  “Valid point.”

  “Seeing you that day,” Del continued, “it was unusual, and when I read the report—did you know the tox screen said you had blood alcohol of point two two?”

  “Is that good or bad?” Roy gulped down the last of his beer.

  “Most people would have trouble walking, but you had cocaine and ketamine in your system.”

  He put his glass down. “It was a New Year’s party.”

  “Those details didn’t appear in the East Hampton police report. None of the tox screen results were filed.”

  “Why would they be? I wasn’t driving. Is it a crime to be high?”

  Roy didn’t flinch when he said it. His facial color didn’t change at all.

  She said, slowly and clearly, “You weren’t driving?”