Once a Killer (4 page)

“How did it go?” she asked. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“I didn’t get to see Jenks until a few minutes ago.”

“And?”

“You’re talking to the newest equity partner at Dudek, Collins, & Hamilton.”

“Well, Mr. Hoffman, you deserve it. I’m so proud of you. Do you know that?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, my little equity partner.”

When the call was over, Michael peered out of his window. The sun was fading and the neon lights of Times Square were beginning to stand out against the dark streets below him. Making equity partner in a major New York law firm was something he’d only dreamed of when he’d started out as a lawyer. Now he could give his family everything he never had as a child. They’d never want for anything.

The phone rang on his direct line, startling him. He walked back to his desk to answer it.

“Grannis will see you next Tuesday, three o’clock,” said the voice at the other end of the line.

Michael immediately recognized Glass Eye’s rasping voice. “Where?”

“Here in town. Suite 2160, 26 Cedar Street.”

“I’ll be there.”

Michael placed the receiver down and stared at the photos on his desk. Whatever happened, he was not about to let Rondell ruin their lives.

He closed his eyes. A vivid image flashed into his mind: it was the last time he saw Rondell all those years ago. On a dark, wintry evening, an angry mob surrounded two police cars outside an apartment block. People were swearing and spitting as they began to rock the vehicles from side to side. Rondell, then a ten-year-old child, was sitting alone on the back seat of one of them, glaring at Michael through the car’s side window, his face a mixture of horror and loathing.

Lunch service had long finished, and Wall Street’s power brokers were back at their desks shoving money around, but the smell of Indian food still wafted out of the open door of the restaurant at the bottom of 26 Cedar Street. The entrance to the offices above was to the left of the restaurant, next to a scruffy steel pipe jutting out of the wall, which Michael assumed was used by the fire department for some purpose or other.

He pulled open the heavy glass door, entered the dimly lit hallway, and announced himself to the bored-looking Hispanic man sitting behind the security desk. The man said nothing, but jutted his goatee-chin toward the elevators opposite. Michael thanked him all the same and walked into the one that was open, pushing the button for the Grannis Hedge Fund. The aging machine creaked its way to the twenty-first floor, shuddering as it stopped. When he stepped out, to the left of him was a small, open-plan office behind a smoked glass door marked private. Inside were six or seven men in their twenties, sitting behind desks and shouting down their phones.

Michael turned right toward the door marked Suite 60, Grannis Hedge Fund, his heart pounding in his chest as he contemplated what was about to happen. What would he have to say to the man he’d never expected to see again? He could hardly pretend they were still friends, not after what happened in Chicago all those years ago. For a brief moment, he thought about turning around and leaving, but he had to deal with this sooner or later. Leaving would only postpone the inevitable meeting. Better to face it now and get it over with.

When he opened the swing-glass door, immediately opposite him was a pretty receptionist sitting behind a modern, molded-Corian counter. She looked up and smiled.

“Mr. Hoffman?” she asked.

“Yes. That’s right.”

“Please take a seat.” She pointed to the leather tub chairs next to a window that overlooked Chase Manhattan Plaza. “Mr. Grannis will be with you shortly.”

Michael sat in one of the chairs and hid behind a copy of The Wall Street Journal, which he picked up from the coffee table. He tried not to make it obvious as he looked around. A corridor ran from the left side of the reception area and it appeared to lead to individual offices. Maybe the open-plan office he’d seen outside the elevator was also down there. There was another room tucked behind a glass panel at the rear of reception. Michael could hear loud male voices coming from in there.

The place looked like a legitimate operation. But what was Rondell doing running a hedge fund? That would be the last thing he would have expected of the feral boy he knew as a child. Michael didn’t buy the story about Rondell looking for a lawyer, so what was the real purpose of this meeting? Was Rondell trying to show him how well he’d done in spite of everything? Surely it had to be more than that.

“I can take you through now,” said the receptionist, surprising him when she appeared over the top of the newspaper.

She led him down the corridor and stopped outside a corner office. Michael braced himself when she tapped on the door before taking him in.

“Danny Boy,” said the smartly dressed man rising from behind the large mahogany desk in the middle of the room, his voice booming. It was definitely Rondell, even down to the way he rolled his head slightly as he spoke—a movement Michael must have tucked away in his memory, but now one that came flooding back. When he walked across the room, Rondell appeared to be well over six feet and towered above Michael. Yet, as children, Michael had always been the tallest. Rondell’s hair was cropped short and, as he grinned in his old familiar way, he flashed perfectly straight teeth. Although he looked old for his age—he was only six months older than Michael—he was good-looking, immediately reminding Michael of Denzel Washington.

“No one calls me Danny now,” Michael said, accepting Rondell’s outstretched hand.

“Yeah, I know.” Rondell laughed. “Michael Hoffman, right?”

Michael let go of his hand. “Has been for many years.”

“You’ll always be Danny Boy to me.” Rondell pointed Michael to the chair in front of his desk as he returned to his own seat. “You want a drink?”

“No. I’m fine.” Michael sat upright, his right knee bouncing up and down on his ankle.

“Come on, Danny.” Rondell slid open a drawer next to him and retrieved two glasses and a half-empty bottle of scotch. “Have a drink with me, won’t you? For old times.”

What was the point of offending him? Michael nodded. “Okay. I’ll have small one. I’ve got plenty of work still to do today.”

Rondell rolled his head again. “You haven’t changed. Still the same person.”

“Is that right?”

“Always the one to do the right thing. I bet you don’t drink much at all.” Rondell slid over a large glass of scotch. “You must have picked up some vices after they locked you away.”

Michael ignored the comment and pretended to take a sip, but just held it to his lips. He wanted a clear head for this conversation.

Rondell emptied most of his glass in one swallow. “You’re looking well. Life as a lawyer must suit you.”

“How did you find me?”

“Fluke, really.”

“How’s that?”

“It was your voice. I’d never have recognized you from your face. Great surgery, by the way. Looks expensive.”

Michael rubbed the close-cropped beard covering his lower jaw. “I haven’t had surgery.”

Rondell smiled, again revealing his expensive teeth. “Yeah, right.”

“You said it was my voice?”

The office door behind Michael opened, and a head appeared around it. It was Glass Eye.

Rondell’s smile dissolved when he saw who it was. “Get out of here. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

The door closed.

“I’m sorry,” said Rondell. “Where were we?”

“My voice.”

The smile returned. “Yeah. I heard you on TV about six months back. You were being interviewed about some deal or other. Completely stopped me in my tracks, I can tell you. I thought
I know that voice
and, when I looked up, there you were. Bam! Danny Boy, right in front of my eyes. Man, I can’t tell you how that made me feel.” Rondell took down the remaining scotch and then held up his glass. “Another?”

Michael shook his head no. “This one’s fine for me,” he said, pointing to his untouched drink on the desk.

Rondell poured himself another large measure. “It’s not every day you get to welcome an old friend.” He drank half the glass. “Anyway, there you were on the screen. You sounded like my Danny Boy, but you looked different. I wasn’t completely certain it was you, so I had some of my people follow you. We knew you worked over at Dudek’s from the TV report, so we started there.”

“Why didn’t you just call me to find out if you knew where I worked?”

“And you would have said what? Yeah, I’m Danny Seifert, but I call myself Michael Hoffman now. How can I help you?” Rondell laughed. “Hell, you wouldn’t even have taken my call.”

“You’re right. And if I had, I’d have told you to get lost.”

“That’s what I figured, so I did things my way.”

“Using your people.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And who exactly are your people?”

“I’ll get to that. You’ve met a couple of them already.”

“I’m curious. How did they confirm who I was?”

“It wasn’t easy. You buried your past pretty well, my friend.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “Haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but you’ve taken it to the next level. After months of digging, my people came up with nothing concrete linking you to Danny Seifert. Everything pointed to you being plain old Michael Hoffman. At one point, I thought I must have made a mistake. But I’d know your voice anywhere. It had to be you.” Rondell sat forward. “Then we had a lucky break.”

“What was that?”

“We heard your mom died.” Rondell rested his forearms on the desk. “Well, of course, I was sorry to hear about her. She was always good to me.”

“She always put on an act for strangers.”

Rondell took another slug of whiskey. “Anyway, even though you were never that close to her, I figured, if there was a way, you’d try to make the funeral. You being a decent person and all.”

“You were right. I needed to see for myself that she was actually dead.”

Rondell nodded his acknowledgment. “Well, once you turned up, we knew we had our man. After that—”

Michael raised his palms. “Save it. I know the rest. But what I don’t understand is why go to all this trouble to find me? You must have known I’d want nothing more to do with you after…”

“After what? Still can’t bring yourself to say it, can you?”

Michael’s throat felt dry. “After that day.”

Rondell narrowed his eyes. “That’s right. That day a defenseless old man was killed.”

“We both know what happened.”

“We know all right, Danny Boy.”

Both men remained silent, staring at each other.

“When did they let you out?” Michael said, breaking the long silence.

Rondell scowled. “I heard it was years after you got out.”

“No more than you deserved. Everyone knew the kind of kid you were.”

“And you were completely innocent?”

“They all understood how you led me on. How the whole thing was your idea.”

“They only knew what you told them. And you were a harmless little white boy, not even ten. Sure the police were going to believe you over me. Don’t make it the truth, though.”

“It was the truth.”

“You were a liar then, and you’re lying now. The fact is, Danny Boy—” Rondell emptied his glass “—you owe me.”

A wave of contempt ran through Michael. “I owe you nothing. Because of you, I lost years of my life. I lost my family, my identity, everything.” Michael wanted to pick up Rondell and throw him through the window. How dare he think he could come back into his life again? He rose to his feet. “I’m finished here,” he said before walking to the door. When he opened it, Bull Neck was standing in the doorway, blocking his way.

“Sit the fuck down, Danny Boy,” said Rondell. “You’re going nowhere. I haven’t finished with you yet.”

Bull Neck shoved Michael hard in the middle of his chest and pulled the door closed. Michael fell backward onto the floor, stunned.

“What the hell’s going on here?” he asked, scrambling to his feet.

“I told you. You owe me. Did you think I got you here because I wanted a cozy chat about old times? This ain’t a social meeting, Danny Boy. I haven’t spent months trying to track you down so we can pretend we’re old friends.”