Replay

  Andrew was overwhelmed with sorrow, a sadness that suddenly drained him of his will to live.

  The doctor walked over to him.

  “Your scan results are normal. There’s no trace of a brain lesion or tumor, so that’s good news.”

  “But I’m so cold, and my back hurts so much,” Andrew mumbled.

  “I know—your body temperature is low. We’ve consulted and all reached the same conclusion. You’re dead, Mr. Stilman. Well and truly dead. That cold feeling shouldn’t last long, just the time it takes for your conscience to die too.”

  “I’m sorry, Stilman, really sorry I failed,” Pilguez said again. “I’m going to take my friend to lunch, then we’ll come back and take you to the morgue. We won’t leave you on your own at a time like this. I was delighted to know you, even if it was only briefly.”

  Dr. Kline said goodbye politely, and Pilguez patted Andrew on the shoulder in a friendly manner. They turned out the light and left the room.

  Alone in the darkness, Andrew began to wail his heart out.

  * * *

  He was being shaken violently, as if he was being tossed about on a stormy sea. A ray of light hit his eyelids. He opened his eyes wide and saw Valerie’s face above him.

  “Andrew, my love, wake up. You’re having a nightmare. Wake up, Andrew.”

  He inhaled deeply and sat up with a jolt, covered in sweat. He was in his own bed, in his bedroom in his West Village apartment. Valerie was nearly as scared as Andrew. She took him in her arms and hugged him tight.

  “You have nightmares every night. You’ve got to see someone—this can’t go on.”

  Andrew pulled himself together. Valerie handed him a glass of water.

  “Here, drink this. It’ll do you good, you’re bathed in sweat.”

  He glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It read 6 A.M. and the date was Saturday, May 26.

  He had six weeks left to identify his murderer, if his terror-filled nights didn’t destroy him first.

  17.

  Valerie did her best to comfort Andrew. He was exhausted, and it worried her. Around noon, she suggested they go for a stroll in Williamsburg to browse the antique shops. Andrew was fascinated by a miniature steam engine dating back to the 1950s, but it cost a lot more than he could afford. Valerie encouraged him to go and have a look around the back of the store. As soon as he’d turned away, she bought the coveted object and slipped it into her bag.

  Simon spent the whole of Saturday tailing Olson. He’d gone to wait in front of Olson’s apartment building at first light. Seated at the wheel of an Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight that attracted attention from passersby each time he stopped at a traffic light, Simon wondered if he should have picked another car, but this was the most inconspicuous one in his collection.

  Olson spent his lunch hour in a shady-looking massage parlor in Chinatown. He emerged around 2 P.M. with his hair slicked back against his head. The next stop was a Mexican restaurant. Simon parked in front of it and waited as Freddy wolfed down tacos, licking every last drop of sauce off his fingers.

  Simon had bought himself a camera and a telephoto lens that any tabloid photographer would be proud to own; he’d decided these accessories were essential to the success of his stakeout.

  Towards mid-afternoon Olson went for a walk in Central Park. Simon watched as he attempted to strike up a conversation with a woman reading on a bench. If you can swing it wearing that Tabasco-splattered shirt of yours, bud, I’ll go join a monastery, he thought. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the woman shut her book and walk away.

  While Simon spied on Freddy, the hacker he’d recruited was busy copying the content of Olson’s computer. It had taken him less than four minutes to break into it. Once he’d decrypted all the duplicate files, he’d know whether Olson was the person behind the Spooky Kid username.

  Simon’s computer whiz wasn’t the only one tapping away at a keyboard. On the other side of the country, a retired detective was exchanging e-mails with a former colleague he’d mentored at the 6th Precinct back in the day and who now headed the Chicago Police Department’s Bureau of Detectives. Pilguez asked him for a small favor. The legality of his request was highly questionable without a judge’s order, but he figured it was between him and his friend and for a good cause, so to hell with the paperwork.

  The information he’d just been given worried him considerably, and he hesitated for quite some time before calling Andrew.

  “You sound like you’re in bad shape,” he said.

  “I had a rough night,” Andrew replied.

  “I’m an insomniac too, and it doesn’t get any better with age. But I wasn’t calling to tell you about my problems. I wanted to let you know that Mrs. Capetta bought herself a plane ticket to New York this morning. And what caught my eye is that she’s arriving on June 14, but it’s an open return ticket. You’ll probably tell me that it’s cheaper this way, but still. Those dates are just a little too close for comfort.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “If a policeman asked you to reveal your sources, would you?”

  “No way,” Andrew replied.

  “Then be happy with what I’m willing to tell you. The rest is my business. I’ve made a few arrangements regarding Mrs. Capetta. There’ll be someone on her tail from morning to night from the moment she sets foot in New York. Especially in the morning—you and I know why.”

  “Maybe she’s decided to see her husband again.”

  “That would be the best news I’ve heard in weeks. But I’ve got this unfortunate character flaw: I never believe good news. What about you? Have you made any progress on your end?”

  “I can’t think clearly anymore,” Andrew said. “Olson bothers me, and he’s not the only one. I find myself suspecting everybody.”

  “You need a change of scenery. You should get out of New York for a while. You’re on the front line of this investigation and you have to stay focused, but time is running out. Unfortunately I know you’re not going to take my advice.”

  Pilguez said goodbye to Andrew and promised to call again as soon as he had any news.

  “Who was that?” Valerie asked, finishing the ice cream she was eating on the patio of the café where they’d found a table.

  “Nothing important. It was a work thing.”

  “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say your work isn’t important. You must be even more tired than I thought.”

  “Would you like to go to the beach for a night?”

  “Of course I would.”

  “Come on. I know a charming little beachfront hotel in Westport. We can catch a train from Grand Central. The sea air will do us good.”

  “We’ll have to stop off at home first to pick up a few things.”

  “Not necessary. We can buy a toothbrush there, can’t we? That’s all we need for an overnight trip.”

  “What’s going on? It’s like you’re running away from something or someone.”

  “I just feel like getting out of the city. A little romantic jaunt with you, somewhere calm and quiet.”

  “And may I ask how come you know about this charming little beachfront hotel?”

  “I wrote the owner’s obituary.”

  Valerie looked at him tenderly. “Well, this is very chivalrous of you,” she said.

  “You’re not jealous of my past, are you?”

  “Of your past and your future. You have no idea how jealous I was of all those girls that hung around you back when we were in college,” she replied.

  “What girls?”

  Valerie gave a knowing smile and hailed a taxi.

  They reached Westport in the early evening. From their room they could see the headland and the constant swirl and clash of the currents.

  After dinner they went for a walk along a deserted strip o
f beach near the inlet. Valerie spread a towel she’d borrowed from the hotel on the sand. Andrew laid his head on her knees, and together they watched the angry ocean.

  “I want to grow old with you, Andrew, so I have time to really get to know you.”

  “You know me better than anyone else.”

  “Since leaving Poughkeepsie, all I’ve experienced is loneliness. Being with you is drawing me out of my solitude. I’m finally starting to feel happy.”

  They snuggled up together in the cool of the evening, silently watching the waves break on the shore. Andrew thought back to their teenage years, musing that some memories were like faded old photographs where the details only came into focus in certain kinds of light. He felt like the two of them were closer right now than they’d ever been.

  In three days’ time he would be in Buenos Aires, thousands of miles away from her and from this peaceful interlude. He hoped he’d be able to relive this moment when the summer days began to wane.

  * * *

  A peaceful night’s sleep and breakfast in the sunshine helped Andrew to recover his strength. His back pain had disappeared.

  When they returned to New York on Sunday evening, he called Simon and asked him to meet him at Starbucks around nine the next morning.

  * * *

  Simon was late. Andrew read the paper while he waited.

  “Don’t say anything,” Simon warned. “I’ve had the shittiest Saturday of my life.”

  “I haven’t said anything.”

  “That’s because I’ve forbidden you to.”

  “What was so terrible about your Saturday?”

  “I spent the day in Freddy Olson’s shoes. You have no idea what a revolting disguise it was.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse. Whores, tacos, and coke, and that was only the morning’s activities. After lunch he treated himself to a visit to the morgue. Don’t ask me what he was doing there. If I followed him in he would have spotted me and anyway, I’m not crazy about seeing the inside of one of their iceboxes. Then he bought some flowers and went to Lenox Hill Hospital.”

  “And after the hospital?”

  “He went for a walk in Central Park. Then he went to your neighborhood and hung around your place. After walking past the door of your building four times, he went in and hunted for your mailbox. Then all of a sudden he turned around and left.”

  “Olson went to my place? That guy is out of his mind!”

  “I’d say he’s at the end of his rope. I tailed him all the way back to his place. That man’s loneliness is bottomless, an abyss. He’s totally lost.”

  “He’s not the only one feeling lost. It’s nearly June. Although I shouldn’t be complaining. Who else can brag that they’ve lived through the same month of May twice?”

  “Not me, at least,” Simon replied. “And considering my stellar turnover this month, it’s just as well. Come on, June—and here’s to July,” Simon said, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast.

  “May was the month my life changed,” Andrew sighed. “Up until then, I was happy. I hadn’t screwed up every good thing that had ever happened to me.”

  “You have to forgive yourself, Andrew. Any number of people would dream of being able to start over, to go back to the moment just before they messed everything up. If you say that’s what’s happening to you, make the most of it instead of complaining about it.”

  “I’m going to be murdered, Simon. It’s not a dream, it’s a nightmare. Will you look after Valerie when I’m gone?”

  “You’ll look after her yourself! We’re all going to die: life’s a terminal illness that afflicts us all. I don’t know when the fateful day will arrive for me, and it’s not a deadline I’ll be able to postpone. Which is no more reassuring, come to think of it. Want me to take you to the airport tomorrow?”

  “No need.”

  “I’ll miss you, you know.”

  “I’ll miss you too.”

  “Right, you’d better get back to Valerie. I have an appointment.”

  “Who with?”

  “You’re going to be late, Andrew.”

  “Answer me.”

  “With the receptionist at Lenox Hill Hospital. I went back there yesterday evening to see if she was doing okay after Freddy’s visit. It’s the perfectionist in me—can’t help it.”

  Andrew got up and said goodbye to Simon. He turned back just before leaving the café. “I want to ask you to do me a favor, Simon.”

  “I thought you already had. But go ahead, I’m listening.”

  “I need you to go to Chicago. There’s this woman I’d like you to follow for a few days. Here’s her address.”

  “Does this mean we’re not going to be meeting up in Buenos Aires?”

  “Did you really think we would?”

  “I had my suitcase packed, just in case.”

  “I’ll call you. I promise I’ll ask you to come over if it’s at all possible.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll go to Chicago as soon as I can, and you take care of yourself over there. Is this Mrs. Capetta pretty?”

  Andrew gave his friend a hug.

  * * *

  Andrew spent the morning at the office. Olson wasn’t around. Andrew called the receptionist and asked her to let him know the minute Olson arrived. He told her he was supposed to be meeting him in the lobby.

  As soon as he’d put down the phone, Andrew went to snoop around Olson’s cubicle. He rummaged through his desk drawers, but all he found was a lot of notebooks filled with memos and totally uninteresting ideas for stories the newspaper would never publish. How could Olson be so useless? Andrew was about to give up when a Post-it that had stayed stuck to the wastebasket caught his eye. It had the password to his own computer scribbled on it. How had Olson gotten ahold of it? And what had he been doing on Andrew’s computer?

  Same thing as you, said a little voice in his head. Looking for dirt.

  “It’s not the same thing,” Andrew murmured to himself. “Olson is a potential threat to me.”

  And I’m a threat to him—to his career, anyway.

  A crazy thought occurred to him. He tapped out his own password on the keyboard of Olson’s computer to see if he could gain access. It worked. Andrew concluded that Freddy was about as imaginative as a goldfish. Either that, or he was incredibly Machiavellian. Who would think of using the password of the very individual they were spying on?

  There were several folders on Olson’s hard disk, including one named “SK.” Andrew opened it to find it contained the prolific writings of Spooky Kid. Olson was certifiably insane, he thought as he read through the torrent of abuse directed at him. But, unpleasant though it was to read a litany of this kind, he was glad a jealous colleague was behind it and not a reader. Andrew slipped a flash drive into the computer and started copying Olson’s files to read them at leisure. He was scrolling through the file names on the screen when he heard his telephone ring on the other side of the cubicle wall, and the ping of the elevator doors opening on the landing. Andrew just had time to copy a file named “Punishments,” and got up hastily as Freddy came walking down the corridor.

  Slipping back into his own cubicle, Andrew realized he’d left his flash drive in Olson’s computer, and prayed he wouldn’t notice.

  “Where were you?” he asked as Olson passed him.

  “Why? Since when do I owe you any explanations?”

  “Just curious,” replied Andrew.

  “When are you leaving for Buenos Aires, Stilman?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “If you could stay there, it’d give me a break.”

  Olson’s cell phone rang. He went out of the office to take the call. Andrew seized the opportunity to retrieve his flash drive. Then he picked up his notebooks, glanced one last time at his desk and decided to go home. Valerie would
be waiting for him; it was their last evening together before he went off to Buenos Aires, and he didn’t want to be late.

  * * *

  He took her to dinner at Shanghai Café in Chinatown. The restaurant was a lot cozier than Joe’s. Valerie was feeling down and made no attempt to hide it. Though Andrew was happy to be taking his investigation further, he couldn’t help feeling guilty. They should have made the most of their evening out, but the knowledge that their separation was imminent made it impossible.

  Valerie decided to sleep at her own place. She said she would rather not be there early next morning when Andrew zipped up the small suitcase she’d packed for him. He accompanied her back to her apartment in the East Village. They stood in each other’s arms in front of the building for a long time.

  “I hate you for leaving me here alone, but I’d hate you even more if you decided not to go.”

  “What can I do to make you love me, just a little?”

  “On the eve of your departure? Not much. Come back soon. That’s all I’m asking. I miss you already.”

  “It’s only for ten days.”

  “And eleven nights. Look after yourself, and find that guy. I’ll be proud to become your wife, Andrew Stilman. Now get out of here before I decide not to let you go.”

  18.

  Andrew’s flight landed at Ezeiza International Airport in the early evening. To his surprise, Marisa had come to meet him. He’d sent her several e-mails, but he hadn’t heard from her at all since the last time they’d spoken on the phone. On his earlier trip, they’d met at the hotel the morning after his arrival.

  Andrew was noticing that the more time went by, the more things seemed to be happening in a different order than they had the last time around.

  He recognized Marisa’s old VW Beetle. Its side runners were so rusty that, on his previous trip, each time the car had hit a bump he’d wondered if his seat would go through the floor.