City Of Lies (19 page)

‘But I did it, and I got John away from them too. And now, after all this time, because Edward, damned fool that he is, gets himself shot I find myself in a situation where I’m having to walk around the edges of this thing once more.’

‘So why did you telephone, John? Why didn’t you tell Walt Freiberg to leave John alone—’

‘Because Walt Freiberg is not the sort of man you defy, and because there was a shred of truth in what he was saying—’

Duchaunak tilted his head to the right and frowned.

‘—Anne might have wanted John to know who his father was.’

‘You really believe that?’

‘In retrospect no, but in that moment . . . you know how it is . . . emotions enter the picture, you become confused . . . ’ Her voice trailed away. ‘And then I called John in Miami, couldn’t reach him. Called the number of a girl he used to go out with . . . God knows why, but I remembered where she worked, and then when I spoke to him he was unwilling to come.’ Evelyn smiled. She looked fatigued. ‘John and me, we have a history, you know? We spent the better part of twelve years together, living out of each others’ pockets, and when he challenges me it becomes a matter of who can win, rather than a matter of whether or not we’re even discussing something important. It went a little like that.’

‘I understand.’

‘You have children, Detective?’

Duchaunak shook his head. ‘No, no children.’

‘Wife?’

‘No.’

‘Reason?’

‘Career aspirations, and once they faded the viewpoint that
the nature of what I did, the fact that someone would have to be involved in that twenty-four seven . . . well, it didn’t seem like the sort of thing someone would want to do.’

‘You ever give anyone the choice?’

Duchaunak laughed. ‘Not really, no.’

‘Fool you, then.’

‘Eh?’

‘How old are you?’

‘Forty-two.’

Evelyn looked him up and down. ‘You’re serviceably good-looking, reasonably educated . . . seems to me you’ve denied a decent woman a husband.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘But then again, you have a raison d’être, do you not?’

‘And that would be?’

‘Edward Bernstein and his people.’

‘I wouldn’t say that it was my raison d’être, Mrs Sawyer.’

‘But in the absence of anything better it will do.’

‘In the absence of anything better, yes.’

‘So, enough questions.’

‘Just one more if that’s okay?’ Duchaunak asked.

‘Shoot.’

‘The things that Edward Bernstein has done, the things you know about . . .’

‘And what things would that be, Detective?’

Duchaunak said nothing.

She shook her head and smiled ruefully. ‘It doesn’t work that way here,’ she said. ‘I do not choose for Edward Bernstein to be part of my life, whereas you do. I’m in a situation where I’m on the edge of this thing because of John, and when it’s over I will do whatever I have to do to keep John out of this. Frankly, in my heart, I don’t know that there is a great deal I can do. He will do whatever he feels he should do, and if he chooses a path that I disagree with then I can guarantee that I’ll be the very last person in the world he will listen to. You want to find something on Edward Bernstein then you go look yourself. I know these people . . . Walt Freiberg, Sol Neumann, Victor Klein. I have even heard of Ben Marcus, and when it comes to a man like that it is better that his name isn’t even mentioned. These things have been going on for a great deal more years than you’ve been
around. Hell, my husband Garrett and a man called Raymond Dietz used to be drinking buddies some thirty-odd years ago, and that was long before Edward Bernstein and Ben Marcus figured it was a good idea to contradict one another. The fact that Garrett and Raymond Dietz ultimately possessed different loyalties is beside the point. These are dangerous people, Detective, I know that and so do you.’ She paused for a moment, and then she frowned. ‘You don’t see what’s happening here? You don’t see why John Harper has been brought back to New York?’

Duchaunak didn’t say anything; merely looked back at Evelyn.

‘Walt Freiberg is involved in whatever he’s involved in. Maybe he had something to do with Edward being shot, maybe he didn’t. Frankly, it doesn’t matter. The fact that Edward Bernstein has finally seen some sort of justice pleases me no end. But Walt Freiberg is not a stupid man . . . he is fully aware that you are here, he may even have one of his people watching this house as we speak. He is telling me that he’s aware of how much I know. He brought John back just to remind me that he’s my only living relative, my sister’s son, and if I so much as suggest something incriminating then John will disappear quietly, and it won’t be back to Miami. You understand what I’m saying?’

Duchaunak nodded. ‘He’s blackmailing you into silence.’

‘Blackmailing me? Well, if you want to call it that, then yes, he’s blackmailing me. John and I may have had our differences, but still he
is
my only living blood relative, and I will not carry a conscience for something that happens to him. That, Detective, is why you are going to get very little out of me.’

‘And if something happened to John Harper?’ Duchaunak asked.

Evelyn shook her head slowly and looked away towards the window. ‘If something happened to him?’ She turned back to Duchaunak and smiled. ‘I do not believe in violence Detective, but I am of the view that many things in this world are relegated to the level of an eye for an eye in the end – if you know what I mean.’

‘Something happens to John Harper, and you will fight back,’ Duchaunak said matter-of-factly.

‘Me? I look like I’m going to fight anyone? No, Detective,
I
won’t be fighting anyone.’

‘You have someone who will exact some vengeance for you—’

‘I am saying nothing further. I am not willing to put myself in a situation where such things become part of my life. I don’t know anything that will help you.’

‘But—’

‘Hear me on this, Detective. I don’t know anything that will help you. Are we clear on that point?’

Duchaunak looked down at the floor, and then up at the woman facing him. ‘We’re clear on that,’ he said.

‘So, we’re done. You go do whatever you have to do and I will carry on with my life.’

Duchaunak nodded. ‘Thank you for your time Mrs Sawyer.’

‘My time you’re welcome to, Detective . . . at my age time is pretty much all you have left.’

Duchaunak rose from the chair and straightened his jacket. ‘Up on Fifty-first there’s a street sign kind of thing, like a cross. Church building or something. Words read, ‘Sin will find you out’. You believe that Mrs Sawyer?’

Evelyn smiled. ‘I believe a lot of things, Detective; doesn’t mean they’re true.’

‘Good point,’ Duchaunak said.

She walked with him to the front door, opened it, waited until he’d gone down the steps and reached the sidewalk.

‘Maybe I’ll see you again sometime, Mrs Sawyer,’ he said.

‘I kind of hope not, Detective . . . but don’t take that personally.’

‘I never do, Mrs Sawyer, I never do.’ He turned right and started walking.

Evelyn Sawyer paused there on the stoop and watched him until he disappeared across the junction at the end of the street. She stepped back into the hallway. When she closed the door behind her the action was decisive, almost as if she believed she could close out the world beyond.

She could not; she knew it. Nevertheless – as with so many times before – she made-believe it would do some good.

‘He didn’t say where?’

‘No, Miss Cathy,’ Benedict said. ‘Mr Walt said to tell you that the car was outside, that you should have some lunch, that he would call you later.’

Cathy turned to Harper. ‘He does this . . . he does this all the time.’

Harper stood in the inner room beyond the store frontage, looking at himself in a full-length mirror. The man who looked back was someone he barely recognized.

‘I think we are done,’ Mr Benedict said. ‘I’ve had the rest of your things taken to the car.’

‘You look like a different person,’ Cathy Hollander said. She smiled, walked to the side of the room and stood there for a moment looking at Harper.

‘Don’t,’ he said.

She frowned. ‘Don’t what?’

‘Stand there looking at me.’

‘But you look good John . . . you wear good clothes well. You have the build to carry them off.’

Harper turned and looked at Benedict, a stranger who had decided what he should wear. He didn’t know how to feel; didn’t question it. At some point he’d decided to go with it, just go with it until it took him somewhere he didn’t wish to be, and then he would stop. Believed he was in control. Tried to believe there was nothing else here but the generosity of a man who knew his father, and many years before that had known him as a child. Uncle Walt. That was all he was, just Uncle Walt, and if Walt wanted to buy clothes and pay for dinner then so be it. Closer to the truth was that he wanted to stay with Cathy Hollander, and this performance, this small charade, seemed to
please her. Now he was doing things to please a woman, and such a route could never bode well.

‘We’ll go get some lunch,’ Cathy said. ‘You hungry?’

Harper nodded. ‘Hungry, yes.’

‘Mr Benedict—’ she started.

Benedict raised his hands. ‘Not a word. Go to lunch. Enjoy the clothes Mr Harper, enjoy New York . . . it has been a pleasure.’

Harper smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Benedict.’

Benedict lowered his head, a small bow, modest and understated, and then he backed up and turned, passed out through the doorway, closed it gently behind him.

‘And who was he?’ Harper asked.

Cathy frowned. ‘Mr Benedict.’

‘I got his name,’ Harper said, ‘but how does he figure in all of this?’

Cathy shook her head. ‘What d’you mean? He’s Mr Benedict, your father’s tailor.’

‘He’s a tailor.’

‘Yes, a tailor . . . you know what a tailor is, right?’

‘I know what a tailor is.’

‘Well, that’s what he is. He sells suits and shirts and shoes. Your father and Walt come here, a whole load of other people as well, and he sells them their clothes. That’s what tailors do.’

Harper nodded. ‘We go eat,’ he said. ‘I’m all out of questions.’

‘Good,’ Cathy Hollander said. ‘Because I’m all out of answers.’

‘And after we eat we go to St Vincent’s.’

‘That a statement or a question?’

Harper shrugged. ‘A request maybe?’

‘If that’s what you want to do then that’s what we’ll do.’

‘I figure I should—’

She shook her head. ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me, John. You’re here for a few days, however long I don’t know . . . Walt said to take care of you, to make sure you got whatever you wanted, so if you want to go to St Vincent’s then that’s where we’ll go.’

Harper was tempted to ask how the far the definition of
taking care
went, but he restrained himself.

‘So what d’you want to eat?’

‘Can we go somewhere regular? Like a normal place that has
. . . like, waitresses . . . that come with coffee before you’ve ordered anything?’

‘Sure we can, John, anywhere you like.’ Cathy walked across the room and opened the door.

Harper followed her, glanced back at the room as he stepped into the dusty nondescript storefront. He frowned, figured he should ask something else.

The car was out front against the sidewalk. He walked around the back and came up on the passenger side.

‘You want to drive?’ Cathy asked.

‘Sure, if you like.’

‘I like,’ she said and smiled warmly. ‘Always figured I was the kind of girl born to be chauffeured.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Sure it’s so,’ she replied. She tossed the keys over the roof. Harper caught them, walked around front, and for a moment it seemed like a kid’s game, a game where everyone knew the rules except himself. He stood there for a second, hand on the door, and then he looked to his left and down the street.

‘What?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he replied.

‘You don’t have that kind of expression when there’s nothing.’

He turned back towards her, smiled. ‘Kind of expression is that?’

‘Ah hell, I don’t know . . . like you were just considering something real significant.’

Harper glanced down. He pulled the handle. The car door opened. ‘Get in,’ he said. ‘We’re going to lunch.’

The call had come as Walt Freiberg was leaving Benedict’s shop. A call from Sol Neumann.

‘Mr Marcus wants a sit down,’ Neumann said.

‘Tell me where.’

‘You know the place on West and Bloomfield?’

‘Somewhere neutral,’ Freiberg said. ‘Somewhere public.’

‘You don’t trust us to keep our word on this thing?’ Neumann asked.

‘Let’s not fuck each other around eh, Sol?’ Freiberg said. ‘Give me a place we can meet and we’ll start talking.’

‘West Twenty-second near the Flatiron Building . . . restaurant there called The Metropolitan Cafe.’

‘An hour from now?’

‘Suits us,’ Neumann said.

‘See you there, Sol,’ Freiberg said, and ended the call.

‘Sawyer,’ Duchaunak said. ‘Like Tom Sawyer . . . S-A-W-Y-E-R, first name Garrett.’

Faulkner wrote down the name, turned to the computer ahead of him and started typing. ‘Any idea when he died?’

‘August of 1980, that’s what Evelyn said.’

‘A suicide.’

Duchaunak nodded. ‘Self-administered cranial ventilation.’

‘You what?’

‘He blew the back of his own head off.’

‘Like eating Mexican fast food.’

Duchaunak frowned.

‘It’s all over in moments and by then it’s too late to regret it.’

Duchaunak smiled. ‘Just type the name, do your computer shit.’

Faulkner typed. Duchaunak waited silently, thought about Harper’s book, thought about Evelyn Sawyer’s comparison between the death of her sister and that of Marilyn Monroe.

‘Lock ’n’ load, motherfuckers,’ Faulkner said.

Duchaunak looked up. ‘You got something?’

‘Two assaults. June eleventh 1956, and October twenty-second 1974. A DUI in April ’68. Possession of an unlicensed weapon—’