Fall Guy (22 page)

“Where do you think he is now?”

“With the cops looking for him? Not anywhere near here. He's gone. He had some money. Whatever his aunt had lying around, pfft.”

“Cash?”

“That's a no-brainer.”

“Jewelry?”

“Gone. She had a lot of jewelry, too. Some really good stuff. He could be in California now. Or Florida. It's off-season, cheap fares. He could be snorkeling in the Keys, looking for a sucker in that bar where Hemingway supposedly hung out.”

“Wouldn't the cops be checking with the airlines?”

“The cops!” He snorted. “Under what name? These guys”—he swirled one hand in a circle, indicating the seats around his poker table—“they've got no end of names, ID to go with them. They change names like other people change underwear.”

“Why do you hang out with them, Irwin?”

It was a rude question. I knew it as I asked. There was so much more to him than to someone like Parker. So much less, too. Before he spoke, I had the feeling I knew just what he was going to say, not the details, maybe, but the crux of it. I could have said it for him.

He pushed himself away from the table and jumped down to the floor. The pillow slid off the chair and landed somewhere next to him.

“There's a convention once a year,” he said, “the Little People of America. If that was my thing, I could go, hang around with people my own height, maybe meet a nice short girl who wouldn't mind going out with me.” He shook his head. “The circus was good that way. We were all freaks in our own way. Ella used to say that.” He began to walk around the table. “She was a good egg. A terrific cook. You cook, doll?”

I figured it was rhetorical. I didn't respond.

“Nah. You get taken out to dinner. You don't have to cook. People like Ella, they can't go out to dinner. They get a night off, they're on the road. They get a break, they wouldn't fit in the chairs at most restaurants. Maybe a booth would do it. She could have done that, taken a seat meant for two people. Or three. But then everyone would have been staring at her. That's no way to eat.” He tapped his stomach. “Bad for the digestion. People like Ella have to cook. People like me…” He stopped at the side of my chair now, the side opposite the one where Dashiell lay, the matchbook I'd dropped between his paws. “People like me, we take what we can get.”

“What about people like Tim?”

“Now here's the interesting thing, doll. Someone like Tim, you'd think he'd have a wife, a bunch of cute kids, Thanksgiving dinner with his family, all the nieces and nephews around. But that wasn't his life.”

“Because?” But once again, I already knew the truth.

“Because he did the same as everyone, Rachel. He did the best he could. And it didn't include the wife and the kids. He couldn't go that route. So he…”

“Took what he could get?”

He nodded.

“Parker.”

“That's right, doll. Same as I do. How about you?” he asked, the cigarette in his mouth, squinting past the smoke. He didn't wait for an answer. “Same, doll, am I right? And it's not always enough.” He held his hands out, as if he were
showing me the size of a fish he'd caught. “That's life, doll. Lonely people can't afford to be fussy. They get someone's ear, they blab too much. They never know when they're going to get another chance. You know what I'm saying, doll?”

“I do.”

“And if you're lonely, if no one looks at you when you're out, as if you weren't even there, as if you didn't exist, and some bums want to hang out with you because you've got beer in the refrigerator and air-conditioning, what are you going to say? No? Most of the time, doll, you're not even aware you're settling for second-or third-best. After a while, your expectations adjust. Am I right?”

I thought about Colm O'Fallon, Tim's father, expecting nothing but sorrow from his life, getting exactly what he expected.

“I've got to go,” I told him. “Maggie will be here soon.”

I bent to pick up Dashiell's leash. Irwin headed for the door.

“Don't forget. I'm counting on you.” I tapped my head with one finger.

Irwin nodded. “Sane,” he said. “Both of us. I'm sure of it.”

I bent down and kissed him on the cheek, then headed quickly down the stairs. I
was
counting on him, but not for confirmation of my sanity. I was counting on something else, on a lonely man's need to talk.

I heard a car door close out front. Dashiell barked once. I waited a moment, then hit the buzzer to open the inner door. When I opened O'Fallon's door, Maggie was standing there, her face pale, her eyes red, Brody right behind her, seeing her home, in a way.

Was he worried she might not be safe? Because I was. I would have been a fool not to be. One death, Tim's, doesn't create a pattern. And Elizabeth Bowles had nothing to do with Maggie. With Dennis's murder, everything changed. It wasn't a big leap to think that the last remaining O'Fallon could be in danger.

Maggie didn't speak. She put a hand to her mouth. Her eyes welled up. She headed for the bathroom, half walking, half running.

Brody waited until we heard the door close, the water running.

“His neck was broken,” he said.

“Just like Elizabeth Bowles.”

“And both times, an opportunistic hiding place. Whatever's at hand.”

Whatever's obvious, I thought. In neither case was the body meant to remain undiscovered for long. At this point, I didn't think whoever killed Elizabeth Bowles had tied a sloppy knot. The poorly tied knot had been intentional. The Dumpster offered the same advantage—easy discovery. More evidence piling up against Parker. I looked at Brody. The more things changed, the more they remained the same. Neither of us was telling the other what we knew, each of us for his own good reasons.

“I have to get back to the house,” he said.

I reached out and put my hand on his arm. “Is she safe?” I asked him.

“I've alerted the Piermont police. They'll drive by, look in on her, make sure she's okay.”

A lot of good that will do, I thought. I glanced toward O'Fallon's kitchen. No sign of Maggie yet.

“Thank you for bringing her to the door,” I said, knowing what I had to do now, knowing I had no choice in the matter.

My hand was still on his arm. He took it in his, held it for a moment, then turned to leave. I closed the door and stayed in the living room, giving Maggie all the privacy she might need. When she came back out, she'd washed her face and combed her hair.

“The man who was living here with Tim…”

“Parker Bowling.”

“Yes. Wasn't that the way his aunt was murdered, a broken neck?”

“Yes. That was what I was told.”

Maggie was looking across the room, toward the windows and the half-open shutter, the light coming in over the top.

“Do they think that this person, the man Tim was helping, might have killed them both?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“But they're looking for him, aren't they?”

“Yes, I was told they are.”

“For questioning?”

“Yes,” was all I said, not knowing where she was going, where I should go with this.

“And Tim?”

I felt my breath catch up in my throat.

“Do you think he killed Tim, too?”

“Would it make a difference, Maggie, if he hadn't done it himself, if someone else…”

Maggie took a deep breath, thinking before answering my question. “Yes. I know it seems odd. Either way, he's gone and I'll never see him again. Either way, it's a terrible tragedy. But I can't bear the thought that he was that unhappy.” She put a hand to her lips and shook her head. “Detective Brody said they were looking for Parker for the other two murders. He didn't mention Tim. Of course, when there's been suicide in the family, it's not supposed to come as a surprise when it happens again. But it always does. It's the same with any death. Someone could be mortally wounded or terribly sick or frail and ancient, but the family always acts as if the death was the last thing on earth they expected. They act as if keeping a vigil at the ICU had nothing to do with anyone actually dying.

“I had a patient last year who was in her nineties and fading very quickly. The family was there a lot—her children, her grandchildren, even a second cousin. They came every day for three
days. When she finally died, very peacefully while they were in the cafeteria taking a break, they seemed devastated when they returned.”

“Because they hadn't been there when she died?”

“No. That would have made some sense. What they said to the doctor was, ‘You didn't say it would be today.'”

“As if he should know that.”

“Do you think Parker did this, Rachel?”

“No,” I said. “I don't think Parker killed anyone.”

Maggie's mouth opened, then closed again. She got up and walked over to the windows, unlatching the shutters and opening them wide. For a moment, she just stood there, her back to me, looking out at the street or lost in thought.

“Then who?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“No thoughts? No theories? Then why all those questions?”

“What would be the point of speculating, maybe this happened, maybe that happened? It would only create more sorrow.”

“What was the point of any of this—of Tim killing himself, of that poor Elizabeth Bowles getting murdered, and of someone killing Dennis? On top of everything else, why Dennis?”

“I don't know. I wish I did.”

For a while, neither of us spoke.

“You must be so tired,” I said at last.

“I am, yes.”

“I have everything ready. All the things you set aside are packed up.”

She nodded. “You've been so kind. You've been especially good to me. What you said about my burns, about wanting you to know, I've been thinking about that.”

“And?”

“And about the no-talk rule, the way we grew up, about how it cripples you. The odd thing is, you take pride in what you're doing. You take pride in being a good liar, in doing the best job possible of keeping everything looking nice on the surface. And look where it leads, Rachel. Look where it leads.”

“The day of the fire…”

“I know what you're going to ask, Rachel. I do. It wasn't anyone's fault. That's the truth.”

“Then how did the fire start?”

“They'd stolen cigarettes. They were smoking, all of them. Someone dropped a match,” she said, “or a cigarette. It fell into the dried leaves they'd put around the base of the tree, around me.”

“You don't know who?”

“It doesn't matter, does it? No one did it on purpose.”

“And once the fire got going, it was Francis who untied you?”

“Yes.”

“And what did the other boys do?”

“At first, they were sort of yelling and running around, not doing anything…”

“Useful?”

“Yes. But then they began to kick snow onto the burning leaves and put out the fire. I didn't get to see that. Once Francis untied me, he wrapped his jacket around my legs, rolled me in the snow and
then picked me up and began running toward home.”

“He must have been a very brave boy,” I said. But that's not what I was thinking. I was thinking that Francis was a twelve-year-old kid. He couldn't have picked her up and carried her all the way home. That wouldn't have been possible. I looked at Maggie, over at Tim's desk now, picking up the little statue of the horse, tracing the graceful arch of its neck with one finger. She was still doing it, still trying to glue the past back together with storytelling. Whom was she trying to kid this time, I wondered, me or herself?

“I meant to give this to Detective Brody,” she said.

“I can do that for you if you like.”

“You've already done so much, Rachel.”

“It's okay,” I said.

She put the horse back on the desk. “Then I guess I'm ready to go.”

“There's one more thing I need to do for you, something urgent.”

“What's that, Rachel?”

“I'm sending Dashiell home with you.”

“Why? What do you mean? I don't understand.”

“I don't want to alarm you, Maggie, but I have no choice.”

“Rachel?” She took my hands in hers, holding on for dear life. “It's because of Dennis, isn't it?”

“Yes. I don't think you're in danger, Maggie, but you might be. Detective Brody has notified your local police and they're going to be watching your house and stopping by to make sure
you're okay. Here's what I need you to do. Are you listening?”

“Yes, I am.” Her professional voice now. She had spent her adult life taking care of crises. I knew she could do this.

“When you get home, if everything looks normal, and I'm pretty sure it will, unlock your door and send Dashiell in first. Tell him, ‘Find it.' He'll check every inch of the house. If anyone's there, he'll take care of it. If you hear barking, go back to your car and drive to the police station. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“If Dashiell comes back to you, wagging his tail, you're safe and you can go inside. Lock the doors.”

“I always do.”

“Good. No one can get in without Dashiell warning you. He'll take care of you. You're not going to work for the next few days?”

“No, I'm not.”

I nodded. “If everything's cool two days from now…”

“I'll bring him home.”

“I'll come and get him.”

“But you need…”

“Shhh. This isn't up for discussion, Maggie. I'm still not sure why Tim asked me to take care of things for him, but I am sure that it had to do with you, perhaps with protecting you from the secrets you already knew. He loved you very much, Maggie. You do know that, don't you?”

“I didn't.”

“But now you do.”

She nodded.

“So I'm just doing my job. I'm protecting you as best I can, with Dashiell's help.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure. Why don't you bring the car around. I can take the things outside and wait for you, help you put them in the trunk.”

“But what about his food and—”

“Feed him whatever you're eating. He'll be fine. And when you walk him, go out in front where people can see you. For his night walk, just let him out in the back. And keep him in your room when you go to bed.”

“Where will he…”

“Not to worry. He'll figure it out.”

When the car was loaded, I opened the back door and told Dashiell to hop in. I took off the leash and put it on the front seat, next to Maggie. Then I leaned into the back seat and put my arms around my dog's thick neck, pushing my face into his fur. He was looking out the back window as she drove away, his forehead creased with concern, but I knew he'd take care of her. Though I felt unimaginably empty watching them leave, I knew I'd done what I had to do.

I went back inside and closed the shutters. Then I picked up the little bronze horse, slipped it into the briefcase, locked up and left. I thought I'd head home then, but I changed my mind as soon as I was outside. I headed west, stopping for a little while in the park between Horatio and Jane Street. The waterfall was running. I sat there for a few moments watching a Border collie retrieve a ball, snorting in delight each time he'd snagged it.
After a few minutes, I headed out on the Jane Street side, turning left toward the Hotel Riverview on the corner. I still had the matchbook I'd taken from Irwin's house in my pocket. I crossed the street and looked up at the old brick building, gone to seed twice over.

Which one of those drifters lived there? I wondered. Which one had a tiny, depressing room with a view of the mighty Hudson, just a stone's throw from Timothy O'Fallon's apartment? It might be just a coincidence that one of Parker's buddies lived here. But coincidences always gave me a funny taste in my mouth, and one way or another, I wanted to know more. I pulled out my cell phone to dial the number on the matchbook, but then I stopped and put the phone away. Whom would I have asked for when the desk clerk answered? Except for Parker, if any of the men I'd met at Irwin's had last names, it was news to me.

I walked over to West Twelfth Street, crossing over to walk along the river, wishing Dashiell were with me to enjoy his favorite place, thinking about the question Maggie had asked me, how angry she had looked asking it. What
was
the point? I wondered now. Was the whole thing a way of getting at Parker, framing him for two murders, maybe three? But that made no sense. If someone was willing and able to murder three people, why not just murder Parker instead?

Was Tim the point? That made more sense. Suppose the crimes had been planned and executed by someone he'd sent to jail, someone who'd carried a major grudge and stewed about it for years and years. I thought about Ape walk
ing out on the memorial. He'd been in Tim's apartment. He knew enough about Tim's life, and Parker's, to have pulled this off. The same could be said for any of the poker players, with the exception of Irwin. He could have shot Tim. All he would have had to do was to carry a step stool into the bathroom. But no matter how strong he was, no way could he have broken Elizabeth Bowles's or Dennis O'Fallon's neck without their complete cooperation and I never knew anyone that cooperative.

But it could have been any of the others. I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that any of them had been in jail. Is it possible that that was the connection to Tim? And if so, how would I find out who had been in jail, where they had been arrested and by whom? I wondered if I could get last names from Irwin. I wondered if he even knew them. If someone had three aliases, or four, or five, maybe they had another dozen they'd used before or might use again.

I sat on a bench facing the river and thought it all through again, each event, each story, each of the men I'd met or seen. Then I took out the phone again. This time I called Brody. The answer to my question would be another first name. At least that's all he said he knew. But it might be a significant one. It might be the first name of the person who set Parker up for a fall, just possibly the first name of the person who murdered Elizabeth Bowles, Dennis O'Fallon and Timothy O'Fallon, and while this was not, I was sure, why Tim had left this job in my
hands, knowing the whole story, knowing the truth was the only way I could really protect Maggie. So once again, I had no choice. There was no way I could let go until I knew who and why. I was in it until the bitter end.