The Caller (5 page)

‘Joe, Joe, get home now,’ she screamed. ‘Something’s happened to Shaun. He’s lying outside the house on the street.’ She hung up. Shaun was on his back with his eyes closed, his arms stretched out by his side.

‘Shaun,’ said Anna. ‘Shaun.’

She crouched down beside him and put an ear to his chest. He was taking in deep guttural breaths and breathing out a rancid mix of garlic, cigarettes and alcohol.

‘Shaun,’ she hissed. ‘Wake up.’

He frowned and rolled his head from side to side. Anna looked around to see if anyone was watching her in her pyjama bottoms and cami kneeling beside her drunk teenage son. Shaun’s eyes flickered open and he slowly turned to her, his head loose on his neck, his eyes wildly trying to focus, first on her, then randomly on either side of her.

‘Mom?’ he said finally.

‘Yes,’ she snapped.

‘Dad?’ he said.

She reached down and grabbed his arm. ‘Get up. Into this house.’

He wrenched his arm away. ‘Get off of me.’

‘Just get inside,’ said Anna. ‘It’s four o’clock in the morning.’

He laughed.

‘It’s not funny.’

‘It is,’ he said. ‘C’mon, it is funny getting the
time whenever you come home. Every kid gets the time when they come home. Like we care. Like it matters.’ He lifted his head off the concrete. ‘Am I on the sidewalk? Jesus Christ.’ He laughed again. ‘How the hell did I get here?’

‘Oh my God – how did you get here? You don’t know how you got here?’

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, rolling onto his side, then dragging himself up onto his elbow. ‘I have no idea.’

‘OK. I’m going inside and you can follow me in. Now.’

‘Ugh.’

‘And your father is on his way.’

‘What? I thought he had a—’

‘Yes he does,’ said Anna. She reached the front door. ‘So God help you.’

Shaun stayed where he was, then dragged himself to the top step of the house. Eventually Anna opened the door and came out.

‘Get up now, Shaun.’ She walked back into the hall. ‘I’m closing the door.’

‘I never asked you to open it.’

She slammed the door and turned on the porch light.

‘Aw man,’ he said. ‘Come. On.’ He leaned a hand back on the step and pushed himself up, knocking against a plant pot. ‘Turn off the goddamn searchlight. I’m right here.’ He banged on the door. Anna opened it. He walked in and sat on the first chair he found.

‘Don’t get comfortable there,’ said Anna.

She heard the beeps again, outside the house. She pulled open the door and grabbed his cell phone.

‘Give me that,’ he said.

She held it up. ‘When you go up and get into bed. Where were you tonight?’

‘Out.’

‘Tell me where you were. Or I will not give this back.’

Shaun laughed. ‘What? Give me my phone.’ He glared at her.

‘Don’t try anything with me,’ said Anna. ‘No more. I’m tired of this.’

‘I’m the one who’s tired of all this,’ said Shaun, standing up, ‘this fucking house. It’s so depressing. I hate being here. I can’t bear it. You go to anyone else’s house and you have fun. You come here and it’s all, like, ugh.’

Anna reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bottle of beer. She shook her head slowly. ‘What are you?’ she said. ‘A wino now? Walking around the streets with bottles of alcohol?’

‘I didn’t want it to go to waste,’ said Shaun.

‘It’s disgusting,’ said Anna. ‘When did you turn into this … this person?’

‘What person?’ said Shaun.

‘Stop it,’ she shouted. ‘Stop being so aggressive with me.’ Tears came out of nowhere. Shaun swayed in front of her, blinking slowly. She
turned quickly and walked into the kitchen, wiping her eyes. She sat down at the table and took some deep breaths. She remembered the advice she once heard that it was never too late to start your day over. She looked at the hands of the clock at 4.20 a.m. and wondered which day she would be re-starting. In the hallway, Shaun’s cell phone beeped again. Anna boiled the kettle and made a mug of Sleepytime tea. Within minutes, she could feel its effects and wanted to stay exactly that way – alone, warm and calm in the soothing steam.

Beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep. Beep.

She put down her mug gently. And made an angry burst for the hallway.

‘Turn that phone off,’ she roared.

Shaun jumped. They both turned towards the door when they heard the keys.

‘Oh no,’ muttered Shaun.

‘Hey, what’s going on here?’ said Joe.

‘What do you think?’ said Anna. ‘He arrived home drunk – again. This time, he was lying on the pavement. Someone had pushed him out of a car and left him there.’

‘What?’ said Joe and Shaun.

‘Yes,’ she said, turning to Shaun. ‘You don’t even remember that part. What nice friends you have.’

Joe knew by looking at Anna that she hadn’t slept yet.

‘Go to bed, honey,’ he said. ‘You need sleep. I’ll take care of this.’

‘What do you mean you’ll take care of this?’ she said. ‘You haven’t done anything—’

Joe turned to Shaun. ‘You, stay where you are. Anna, can I talk to you upstairs?’

Anna shrugged. They walked up the stairs and stood on the landing, leaving Shaun muttering after them.

‘If he sees us fighting, we’re going to get nowhere.’ Joe struggled to keep his voice low.

Anna stared at him, her eyes wide. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘But if he doesn’t see you at all, that’s better?’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘You know what that means,’ said Anna. ‘I’m trying to discipline him alone. And I’m not able to.’

‘Yes you are.’

Anna laughed. ‘Obviously.’

Joe stared at the ceiling.

‘Do you know he hasn’t done anything about his college applications?’ said Anna.

‘Yeah, well, he’s doing that to piss us off. Because we didn’t go see them with him.’

‘What? He knows we couldn’t. I was just back from Paris, you were—’

‘Yeah, yeah, working, I get it.’

‘But you were!’

‘Of course I was! Where else is the money going to come from?’

Anna stepped back. Joe stared at her. ‘It’s true,’ he said.

Her eyes were black with anger. ‘I can not believe you. After what you put me through—’

‘What
I
put you through?’ His voice cracked. They looked at each other. ‘Jesus Christ, Anna. Is that how you feel?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to bed. You blame me for him, I blame you for me, you blame yourself for nothing. Goodnight.’

‘Wait – you have to answer me. You’ve never said that—’

‘I
said
I don’t know what I feel. Now let me go to bed.’

‘What has happened to us?’ said Joe. But she was gone.

Joe leaned against the banister, his breath shaky. He slowly made his way down the stairs.

‘Shaun,’ he said, crouching down in front of him. Over the past year, the brightness had gone from Shaun’s eyes and his skin was starting to look pale and waxy.

‘What?’ said Shaun, drowsy and irritated.

‘Where were you tonight?’

‘Not again,’ said Shaun. ‘I was out, OK? Just let me go to bed.’

‘What’s going on with you?’ said Joe.

‘Nothing,’ Shaun snapped. ‘Nothing, OK? Nothing.’

‘Your Mom and me are worried.’

‘Yeah, well, get over it.’

‘This isn’t you talking,’ said Joe. ‘You’re my boy, you’re a good kid. I don’t know where this nasty piece of—’

‘Leave me alone,’ said Shaun. ‘I want to go to bed.’

‘Your mother was up at the school today, I know you haven’t done anything about college—’

‘Why are you talking to me about this shit now?’ said Shaun. ‘What is wrong with you? It’s, like, late. Or early, whatever.’

Joe moved back and let Shaun struggle up from the chair.

‘Shaun – this is the last time you’re going to do this, come home like this, OK?’

Shaun snorted. ‘Whatever.’

‘Don’t,’ said Joe. ‘EVER say that word to me like that, OK?’

‘Whatcha gonna do?’ said Shaun, taking a step towards him, staring him down.

‘Don’t make this any worse for yourself,’ said Joe.

‘Worse than living in this house? With Mom moping around all day?’

Joe grabbed his arm. ‘Listen carefully, Shaun. I married your mother. That was a
choice
I made. I love your mother. And I never have and never will listen to anyone disrespect her, least of all her own son. Now, get the hell out of my sight.’

Danny and Joe pulled up across the street from Clare Oberly’s apartment building and parked outside a dry cleaners. The elderly owner stood against the plate glass window, smoking a cigarette and staring at them.

‘That Pace guy looks kinda funny, doesn’t he?’ said Danny.

Joe smiled.

‘Kind of like parts of his face are trying to make a run for it,’ said Danny. ‘His eyes are busting out, his Adam’s apple … it’s like he’s so thin, there’s no nourishment there for them. They’re out of there. Know what I’m saying?’

Joe shook his head. ‘You’re a cruel son of a bitch.’

‘Just saying what everyone else is thinking.’

‘You are so full of shit.’

They walked over to the building, past a huge moving van and into a brightly lit foyer with floors
streaked with black marks. A couple walked by them in shorts and T-shirts, carrying a chest of drawers, the man sweating heavily and trailing foul air behind him.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Danny to Joe. ‘Deodorant.’

One of the elevators was held open by the couple moving. Joe and Danny took the free one to the tenth floor, found apartment 10B and rang the bell.

‘Hello,’ said Joe. ‘Clare Oberly?’

‘Yeah. Hi.’ She was an attractive blonde in her mid-thirties, dressed in a lime green chiffon top, white jeans and red and green platform shoes. Strings of expensive multi-coloured beads hung around her neck.

‘My name is Detective Joe Lucchesi. My partner and I are investigating a homicide. You received a phone call round about 11 p.m. last night?’

She paused. ‘Yeah. Why?’

‘Who was the call from?’ said Joe.

‘Ethan Lowry.’ She looked at both of them. ‘Why?’

‘What’s your relationship with Mr Lowry?’ said Joe.

‘Oh, we dated in college. Is he OK?’ she said.

‘Can we come in?’ said Joe.

‘I’m sorry. Yes. I’m so rude. Come in.’ She brought them into a neat, open plan apartment with a huge Miró on one wall. She sat down and gestured to the sofa opposite.

‘I’m afraid Mr Lowry’s been the victim of a homicide,’ said Joe.

‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Ethan?’ She shook her head. ‘Oh my God. He’s so … what happened? He’s just so not the type … if that makes any sense.’

‘He was murdered in his apartment. We think he may have called you right before it happened. And we need to find out why.’

‘God. I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think it would be anything to do with why he was murdered. We don’t even know each other that well any more. Like, I’m not a person he would call if he was in trouble. We’re just not close.’

‘When was the last time you spoke with him?’

‘A year and a half ago. At my brother’s funeral. It was really sweet of him to come. Ethan was very kind like that.’ She bowed her head. ‘I can’t believe this.’

‘What did he say to you when he called?’

‘Not a lot. He just called to say hi.’ She shrugged.

‘How long were you two dating?’

‘Six years.’

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing major, the usual, we were too young, I was too ambitious, he wanted quiet nights in, I wanted to party. We drifted. It got boring, I guess.’

‘And you both moved on.’

‘I did more than he did, I guess. But then he met his wife and he got married shortly after.’

‘So why do you think he called you the night he died?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘You have no idea,’ said Joe. ‘Really?’

She smiled sadly. ‘I’m such a bad liar. The worst. I guess I’m worried … his wife’s just lost her husband …’ She sighed. ‘OK. What I tell you? Does his wife get to hear it?’

‘Not necessarily, no,’ said Joe.

‘I don’t want to make things worse for her. Even though I haven’t done anything … just, the only weird thing that night was Ethan told me … that he loved me.’

Joe frowned. ‘What? And you hadn’t seen him in how long? A year and a half?’

‘Yeah. He said he was just calling to say he loved me.’

‘What did you say to him?’

‘I was shocked. I mean, he sounded pretty normal except for what he was actually saying to me. That was it. I didn’t know what to say back. I mean, he’s married, I heard he has a lovely wife and daughter and … I don’t know. I mean, I don’t love him. Didn’t. I said that to him. I said about his wife and that I’d moved on.’ She shrugged. ‘Now I feel terrible. For him. For his wife. I’m guessing she has no idea. Do you think … I mean, he didn’t kill himself or anything?’

‘No,’ said Joe. ‘Had he hinted about his feelings when you met at your brother’s funeral?’

‘No,’ said Clare. ‘He was really sweet to me. But that’s Ethan, he just is. There was no major interaction between us, no plans to meet up, I didn’t encourage him, nothing.’

‘Is there anyone you could think of that had a problem with Ethan? Was he ever in trouble?’

‘It was eight years ago when we broke up. But before then, Ethan was, like, normal, just a nice guy. I never saw him even have an argument with anyone. He was low-profile, you know what I mean? He’d be the last person I would think would end up murdered.’

Rufo was sitting at his desk pressing keys on his cell phone when Danny and Joe walked in. He held up his left hand to silence them. They looked at each other. Joe shrugged. Rufo spent another few minutes focused on the tiny handset. He was smiling to himself. He hit one last key and put the phone down.

‘Texting,’ he said. ‘What a great way to communicate. You should check it out.’

‘I lived in Ireland, remember?’ said Joe. ‘It’s nearly taken over from drinking.’

‘Who were you texting?’ said Danny.

Rufo looked up at him. ‘None of your business, Markey. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

Joe spoke. ‘I’m thinking of setting up a meeting with Reuben Maller in the Eastern District, get some sort of profile worked out on this perp …’

‘Sure. Go ahead,’ said Rufo. ‘As long as we’re all clear it’s his friendly assistance you’re after.’

Joe nodded. ‘I’ll see what comes out of the profile. If there’s anything we think he should stick around for, anyone he’d like to interview, we’ll see, but you know Maller, he’s a good guy, he does his thing, then disappears back—’

‘Under his rock,’ said Danny.

Joe rolled his eyes. ‘Do you ever think it might be you?’

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ said Danny.

‘You know? The whole world’s an asshole or a dickhead. Did you ever think it might be you?’

‘Ladies, take it outside,’ said Rufo.

Anna stood outside Bay Ridge subway station, searching through her huge navy bag. She found her white headphones, but as she pulled them out, she realized there was no iPod attached.

‘
Merde
.’ She remembered seeing it in the speaker dock in the kitchen. ‘
Merde
.’

She checked her watch and thought about running back home for it, but instead, she forced herself to walk into the heat of the station and down the steps. Raised voices echoed up and when she reached them, she saw a tall well-dressed woman push a scruffy teenage boy by the shoulders, slamming him against the ticket machine. He spat in her face. She threw money at him and
walked away. Anna had no interest in working out what had happened, she kept her head down and moved as far away from him as she could. It annoyed her that her heart rate shot up. It happened too easily, any confrontation, any sudden movements, any loud noises. When she had her iPod on, Mozart made her feel that she could drift everywhere untouched by her surroundings, a gentle soundtrack for a different place, a different set of scenes.

She swiped her Metrocard and waited on the platform, glancing over at the woman in the suit, keeping her where she could see her. The woman was tweaking – coming down off crystal meth, radiating crazy. Anna could hear the young guy behind her shouting – ‘Crazy bitch! She took my money, the crazy bitch!’ Then, ‘No! I got it here! Crazy bitch threw it back at me!’

Nervous energy ran through the crowd. The woman walked away swinging her briefcase, her head held high, her own special tune playing in her head. The R train pulled in and everyone moved on. It was rush-hour cramped and Anna, small and slight, got pushed into a tight spot against a huge student who smiled an apology down at her. She smiled back.

For the first part of the journey, everyone was focused on their books and newspapers or talking to their friends. Anna stared through the window at nothing. Then the subway doors slid open at
Cortlandt Street and stayed open. Panic struck up in her again. Announcements boomed from the speakers on the platform. No-one could hear them. People started to look up, then around at everyone else.

Anna felt a sickening urge to push her way through and burst onto the platform, but was held back by the attention that would attract, everyone staring at this women who was alarmed because a train stopped for two minutes longer than it was supposed to. She could feel the sweat soaking into the fabric at her back, the heat of the platform, of the people around her, of their breath. The doors slid closed and the train started up again. She breathed out and talked to herself all the way to her stop, telling herself she was stupid, then brave, then irrational, then strong, then stupid. She almost ran up the steps into Union Square, relieved to hit air that wasn’t suffocating her. She peeled her top away from her skin and let the light breeze cool her. ‘
I can’t do this
,’ she said to herself. ‘
There is no way I can do this
.’

She straightened up and looked across at Barnes & Noble and felt the pull of a morning spent drinking coffee and flicking through design books of faraway houses on stilts in the ocean or on beaches or cliffsides. A shiver ran up her spine. She took a deep breath and walked towards the W Hotel. She stood at the window and saw everyone gathered in the early morning darkness
of the bar. She recognized the back of Marc Lunel’s head, his long, black shiny hair, the red tab on his Prada shoes. She saw four models, two makeup artists, two hair stylists, the intern from
Vogue
Living
… everyone waiting for her guidance. She saw her reflection in the glass, her tired eyes, her downturned mouth, the sheen of sweat on her forehead. She turned away. She started walking. And she hailed the first cab that passed by.

When Joe got back to his desk, a white envelope lay there, stamped and addressed to him. Most of the mail he got was yellow-envelope inter-departmental. He picked it up. It was light but bulky; cheap paper with no return address. He grabbed a ruler from his drawer and sliced through it. The thin white pages were folded in half and sprang open, both sides covered in scrawled writing and short sentences:
Dear Detective Lucchesi, The noise this
morning was almost unbearable. I could try to create it
in letters and words. I got out of bed. I wouldn’t know
how. Two directions. And it’s agony. I get anxious sometimes
if I do. And actually what I need is peace to find
my way through everything. There was no point in just
laying there. One forward, one back. I made coffee and
fixed myself scrambled eggs. I still know how to do that.
I’m not sure which is harder. But it was loud. Not
everyone else does. I don’t think I can figure it all out
without quiet. Bass and drums. There are times when
I’m nearly there
…

Joe paused, rubbing his temples. He flipped the page over and kept reading. On it went, a random series of thoughts and the vague sense that there was a story inside, one that only the writer knew. It was a complexity of simple facts, observations, theories and descriptions. What Joe read on the sixth page made it relevant to him. Vertically, in the right-hand margin was written:
Lying, badly
beaten. Lowry is the result. I don’t know if I could have
done anything differently
.

Something cold shot up the back of Joe’s neck. He scanned quickly through the pages that followed, through writings about rooms and stories and calculators and theatres. It ended after sixteen pages, signed off namelessly:
More will come.
Captured at the right time
.

‘Jesus,’ said Joe. ‘What the fuck was that?’ He called the others over.

‘Guys, I just got a letter about Ethan Lowry.’

‘A letter?’ said Danny. ‘From who?’

‘A randomer,’ said Joe.

‘Who’s Arrandoma?’ said Rencher.

‘Randomer. A random person. Person unknown. It’s something I picked up from one of Shaun’s friends in Ireland.’

‘OK, what’s this randomer saying?’ said Rencher.

‘A little and a lot,’ said Joe.

‘Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got,’ said Danny.

Joe ignored him and looked down at the letter.
‘OK, so we got a lot of information on exactly where the salt is in the kitchen for when the guy is microwaving his eggs in the morning, a bunch of other stuff about what he likes to do – major detail there …

‘Did he sign it?’ said Rencher.

‘Yeah, sure he did,’ said Danny, ‘with his address too, that’s why we’re all sitting around here, trying to figure out who could have sent it.’

‘Yeah, I meant with anything—’

‘What? Like,
From the killer
…?’ said Danny.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Rencher.

‘Shut the fuck up all of you,’ said Joe. ‘Let me read this out to you.’ He read through the letter and waited in the silence that followed.

‘Are we taking this seriously?’ said Rencher.

‘I think we should be,’ said Joe.

‘But “
lying badly beaten
” – you could get that from a media report, that’s no insider information there,’ said Rencher.

Joe looked down again at the letter and shrugged. ‘I think there’s something in this. Let’s just take it that there is.’

‘“
More will come, captured at the right time
”,’ said Danny. ‘More victims?’

Joe shrugged. ‘Or more letters?’

‘Maybe,’ said Danny.

‘I mean, what is the point of this letter?’ said Martinez.

‘Someone is reaching out,’ said Rencher.

‘But are they trying to help?’ said Cullen. ‘Are they giving us any information?’

Joe glanced down at the pages. ‘I think somewhere in here there’s information. I think they’re trying.’