Trust Your Eyes

The tape strips all looked weathered with age, some were starting to peel off, and the one for apartment 305 was half missing, reading “ch/Walmers.” Kazinski was in 304, Goldberg in 303, Reynolds in 302, and Michaels in 301. I took out my phone and snapped a picture, in case I needed to remember any of them later. I also took a shot of a note posted next to the directory, with a number for rental inquiries.

  What to do, what to do.

  As I pondered this, a man in his twenties came charging out the door, heading for the street. Without even thinking about it, I reached out and grabbed the handle before the door could close.

  I climbed two flights of stairs. When I was on the third floor, I took a second to get my bearings so I could figure out which apartment was most likely the one that faced the street above the scarves store.

  I settled on 305.

  There were a number of ways I could play this. I could knock on the door, and assuming someone answered, say, “So, listen, how are you, my name is Ray Kilbride, and my brother, Thomas, who’s a bit, well, you know, was surfing the Net and happened to notice someone being smothered in your window. Does that ring a bell? Because I don’t know about you, but that’s the sort of thing I’d remember.”

  Perhaps there was a better approach.

  I could take the printout from my jacket, show it to whoever came to the door, and just say, “We saw your place on Whirl360, and noticed this in your window, and if you don’t mind my asking, what the hell is it?”

  Also, not so hot. But of the two, I preferred it.

  Maybe there was some kind of cover story I could come up with. I’m an illustrator, I’d say. I had a Pearl Paint bag in my hand, after all. I could say I’d been commissioned to illustrate a Times article on lower Manhattan architecture, and was looking up your street online, came upon this image, and had to know, what is that, anyway?

  Pathetic.

  What I’d do was this. I’d knock on the door and show whoever answered the printout and just ask.

  Maybe they’d tell me. If they had questions, I’d do my best to answer. I’d be honest. I’d tell them I had a brother who was obsessed with Whirl360, and every once in a while he saw something online he had to know more about.

  God.

  With the printout in my left hand, I knocked on the door with my right, still holding the Pearl Paint bag with it. The bag swung up against the door as I knocked.

  When no one came after three seconds, I tried again.

  And waited.

  I debated whether to knock a third time. Maybe someone was sleeping. Did I really want to wake them up over this?

  I was about to do it anyway when a door down the hall opened. 303, I thought it was. I turned and saw a heavyset woman, hair in curlers, looking at me through black, heavy-framed glasses. Half her body was in the hall, the other half still in her apartment, but her face leaned out so I could see all of it.

  “No one lives there,” she said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “No one lives there. The girls are gone.”

  “Oh, okay, I didn’t know.”

  “Been gone for months,” she said. “Landlord hasn’t rented it out.”

  “Okay,” I said again, nodding. “Thanks.”

  She stepped back into her apartment and closed the door.

  So that was that.

  I turned left as I walked out the front of the building, heading north up Orchard, thinking about what I would tell Thomas when I got home. Not much, really. I gave it a shot, but the place was empty.

  What the hell else could I do?

  I was sitting on the train, looking out at the passing Hudson, when, out of nowhere, something that had been troubling me for some time at an unconscious level came bubbling up to the surface: Why was the blade housing up, and the ignition in the OFF position, on Dad’s lawn tractor?

  TWENTY-NINE

  THOMAS knew he was going to have to make his own breakfast and lunch. Ray had told him it was going to be his responsibility. Ray had said if he was going to have to get up before the crack of dawn to grab a train into Manhattan to go on this cockamamie adventure (Thomas was pretty sure that was the word he’d used), then the least Thomas could do was feed himself.

  “Okay,” Thomas said. “What do we have?”

  “There’s bread and jam and peanut butter and tuna. Look around. Open the cupboards and help yourself.”

  “If I make tuna, where’s the can opener?”

  “Thomas, look at me.”

  “Yes, Ray?”

  “Use your head. If you can’t find something, look for it.”

  “Okay.”

  Ray didn’t seem very eager to check out that window on Orchard Street, but Thomas was pleased he’d agreed to it. He wasn’t sure he’d have sent another message to the CIA outlining his concerns about the face with the bag over it—he wanted to keep his relationship with the agency on a professional level. If the government got the idea he was going to involve them in every suspicious act he’d observed on Whirl360, they might be less inclined to use his services when The Big Thing happened, whatever The Big Thing turned out to be.

  Regardless, Thomas was feeling more confident with each passing week that he was ready for it. At the end of every day, when he finally closed down Whirl360, erased his computer’s history, turned out the light, and lay his head on his pillow, he put himself to sleep by walking through a city he’d recently gotten to know. The night before, with his eyes closed, he had wandered San Francisco. He was going down Hyde, turning right onto the downhill corkscrew stretch of Lombard, the Coit Tower off in the distance. Or walking straight along Hyde, where it starts to slope down, off in the distance there, that has to be Alcatraz. Then crossing Chestnut, the buildings giving way to not much of anything on the left, something called the Russian Hill Open Space. And if he kept going this way on Hyde, pretty soon he’d be…

  Asleep.

  Ray poked his head into his room sometime around five, waking him. “I’m off,” he said. “Don’t get into any trouble.”

  “I won’t,” Thomas mumbled into his pillow.

  The sun was coming through the window when he finally got up. He turned on his computer and set up Whirl360 before he went into the bathroom, had a quick shower, and got dressed.

  In the kitchen he stood a moment, staring at the cupboards, contemplating his course of action. He was pretty sure the cereal was in that cupboard next to the fridge. He opened it tentatively, as though expecting a rat to jump out, but there was the box of Cheerios he was hoping to find.

  The milk was in the fridge. Of course he knew that, he thought. He got a bowl, poured cereal into it, added milk, ate it all up, and returned to his room, leaving the dirty dish on the table and the cereal and container of milk on the counter. This wasn’t neglectfulness on his part. While Ray had made it clear he was responsible for feeding himself, he had said nothing about cleaning up. Thomas figured Ray would want to do that when he got home, just to make sure it was done the way he liked. That was how it had been with their father. Adam Kilbride wanted to be in charge of cleanup. He never let Thomas do the dishes. Which was why Thomas wasn’t up to speed on such things as loading the dishwasher, operating the vacuum cleaner, doing laundry, scrubbing the floors, or dusting. The one chore Thomas had thought might be fun was cutting the grass, but his father wouldn’t let him operate the lawn tractor. But now, even if Ray let him, he’d never want to drive that tractor.

  After breakfast, he continued his exploration of San Francisco. Went through the Mission, Sunset, and Richmond districts and Haight-Ashbury, and strolled over the Golden Gate Bridge. Took quite a few mouse clicks to make that crossing. He became so absorbed with that part of the trip he almost forgot he was responsible for his own lunch.

  He returned to the kitchen just before one. A tuna sandwich seemed like more than he wanted to take on because he’d have to use the can opener, and even when his father opened tuna he used to swear when the lid finally popped off and tuna oil spilled all
over the place. So Thomas found the peanut butter and some bread and was in the middle of making himself a sandwich when there was a knock at the door.

  For a second, he didn’t do anything, because it was always someone else who opened the door, but then he realized he was the only one there, so he set down the knife slathered with peanut butter and went to see who it was.

  “Hello, Thomas.”

  It was Len Prentice, or as Adam Kilbride often called his former boss, Lenny.

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Prentice.”

  Thomas could see the man’s car a few steps away from the porch, but there was no one else in it. He had come out to the Kilbride house alone. He stood like he was expecting to be invited in, but Thomas didn’t want to do that. He had never liked Len Prentice.

  “Your brother around?” he asked.

  “He’s in New York City today,” Thomas said.

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “He’s checking to see whether somebody was murdered by having a bag put over their head.”

  That stopped Len for a second. “Huh,” he said. Then, “You really are crazy, aren’t you, Thomas? Can I come in?”

  He hesitated, then said, “I guess it’s okay.”

  “I was driving by and thought I’d pop in and see how you boys were getting along.”

  Thomas didn’t say anything. Len Prentice hadn’t actually asked him a question.

  “Got a beer or anything?” he asked.

  Thomas said, honestly, “I don’t know.”

  “Never mind. I’ll have a look.” Len crossed through the living room to the kitchen, opened up the fridge, and found what he was looking for.

  “So whattya been doing to keep yourself busy, Thomas?” he asked, twisting off the cap and taking a swig.

  “I work on the computer.”

  He nodded knowingly. “Oh yeah, right. Pretty much all the time, right?”

  “I have stuff to do.”

  “What did you say Ray was doing again?”

  “He’s in New York.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but the other part? What’s he doing?”

  “He’s meeting a friend about work, and he’s trying to find out what happened to the person in the window.”

  Len drank more of his beer. “Is this the person who had a bag put over his head?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Your dad used to talk to me,” Len said. “I wasn’t just his boss, you know. He and I, we were friends. And he said you were always finding pictures of things on the Internet that got you all riled up. Used to tell me he considered unplugging you from the Net, but letting you sit on the computer all day was really the only thing that gave him any peace.”

  Thomas wanted Len Prentice to leave so he could finish making his peanut butter sandwich and take it upstairs with him.

  “It was Marie suggested I drop by. She thinks it would be a nice thing if you and your brother came over to the house for dinner.”

  “I’d have to talk to Ray,” Thomas said. He didn’t want to go, but didn’t feel comfortable saying that. He would get Ray to tell them they couldn’t go.

  “Your dad used to say he just didn’t know why you’re the way you are. Happy to be cooped up in this house all the time, sitting on your computer all day. Never going out except maybe to see your psychiatrist. What’s her name? Gargantuan?”

  “Grigorin.”

  “The thing I can’t believe is, you wouldn’t even go to your own dad’s funeral. Was your little computer fixation so great you couldn’t even do that for him?”

  Thomas blinked. “Why are you saying these things to me, Mr. Prentice?”

  “I don’t know. Just making conversation, really. I guess I’m a simple man, Thomas. I don’t know a lot of psychiatric mumbo jumbo. I thought I knew what this schizo thing is you have, that it means you have a split personality, but your dad told me that was a common misconception, that it’s not like that at all. What I don’t get is, if you know you’ve got a problem, why don’t you do something about it?”

  “I don’t have a problem,” Thomas said.

  Len chuckled. “A son doesn’t go to his own father’s funeral service? That, to my way of thinking, is a problem.”

  “I had things to do,” he said. “And…”

  “And what, Thomas?”

  “And there would be people there I didn’t want to see.”

  “Who’d that be? You talking about me, Thomas? Haven’t I always been nice to you?”

  Thomas shook his head. “I have to make my lunch. I’m making a peanut butter sandwich.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Len Prentice said. “Why don’t I take you out for lunch?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, why don’t I take you out of the house in a car and we’ll go get something to eat?”

  “I already started making the sandwich.” He pointed to the kitchen counter.

  “So what? You can eat it later for an afternoon snack. I’ll take you for a drive. It would do you good to get out of the house.”

  “No.”

  Len set his beer down and said, “I insist.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  Len closed the distance between them. “I think that’s where your dad made his mistake. He always let you get your way. He needed to be more forceful, introduce you to new experiences. We could go into Promise Falls, hit the McDonald’s or get a slice. We could even go back to our place, have Marie make you something.”

  Thomas took a step back.

  “You know, from what I hear, you’re going to have to get used to being out of this house. What about when your brother sells this place?”

  “I don’t know for sure he’s going to do that.”

  “You don’t think he’s going to leave you here on your own, do you? That’s not exactly a terrific idea.”

  Thomas said, “Maybe he’ll decide to live here. We could live together.” But even as he said it, Thomas wasn’t sure this was what he wanted. He loved his brother, but he could be difficult. Like their father, he was critical. Picking at him all the time about things he couldn’t do anything about.

  “Well, whatever happens, I’m sure it’ll work out for the best,” Len said. “Now, you want to grab a jacket or something? I don’t know about you, but I could go for some KFC. You like KFC?”

  Thomas did like KFC, but his brother wouldn’t get it for him. Their father brought it home sometimes. But he did not want to go anywhere with Len Prentice. He felt himself becoming increasingly anxious, like there were bugs crawling around just under his skin. His breathing quickened, became more shallow. He might have been willing to go out, briefly, with some people, people he liked and trusted, but he did not like or trust Len Prentice.

  And his father never really had, either. They’d had a friendship. They’d get together once in a while and watch a game, or grab a beer. But whenever Adam Kilbride returned home from spending time with Len, he’d say, “Jesus, but that guy can really suck the life out of you.”

  Len reached out and grabbed Thomas by the arm. Not rough, but firm. “Let’s go, pardner. Let’s have some fun.”

  Thomas wrenched his arm free. He put more into it than he needed to, and his hand flew up accidentally and slapped Len across the cheek.

  Len stopped, rubbed the side of his face, and said, “Well, Thomas, I sure wish you hadn’t gone and done that.”

  THIRTY

  TRUTH be told, Lewis Blocker wasn’t sleeping all that well, either.

  Allison Fitch was out there, somewhere, and not knowing where she was, or what she might do, had Lewis worried for all the same reasons it did Howard Talliman. If, and when, she decided to walk into a police station and tell everything she knew, it was all over for them. All over for Howard, all over for Morris, and all over for Lewis Blocker.

  Everything he and Howard had done to try to tie up the loose ends on this colossal fuckup, as Howard so aptly called it, would unravel the moment Allison Fitch decided to come out of hiding. Once she
’d told the authorities about the murder, confessed to her blackmail attempt, and revealed her meeting with Howard, the shit would hit the proverbial fan.

  They had to make sure that did not happen.

  Several steps were being taken in that direction. First, Lewis had Nicole watching Fitch’s mother in Ohio. He figured, sooner or later, the girl would attempt to get in touch with her. What daughter in trouble didn’t want to talk to her mom? What daughter wouldn’t be wracked with guilt while her mother despaired over what had happened to her? Wouldn’t she, eventually, feel she had to allay her mother’s fears?

  Lewis had decidedly mixed feelings about keeping Nicole on this project after the way she’d screwed up. His earlier confidence in her had been immeasurably shaken, and his initial impulse had been to make Nicole pay the ultimate price for her mistake. But right now, he needed all the help he could get, and Nicole, feeling her neck, had said she would help, indefinitely, to make things right. So he would use her until this mess was resolved.

  Lewis also wanted to maintain surveillance, of a sort, on the Fitch apartment. Although he thought it highly unlikely the woman herself would return to the unit, he believed it was possible someone who knew her might show up at some point. Maybe just a friend dropping by to say hi. Or, and this was the eventuality Lewis most hoped for, someone Allison had been in touch with and instructed to go to her old place to see what was going on.

  Either way, such a visitor might provide a clue to Allison Fitch’s current whereabouts.

  Lewis couldn’t post someone in the hallway 24-7. Too obvious. And even though he’d spoken to the landlord, in the guise of a relative of one of the former tenants, and arranged to make sure the rent was paid every month for the foreseeable future, Lewis didn’t have the manpower to have someone in the apartment at all hours in case a visitor showed up. He stayed there himself for the first month, and the only person who came knocking was a guy distributing takeout menus for an Italian place down the street.

  But he couldn’t shake the idea that a person of interest might, someday, show up. And when that person did, he wanted to have a look at who it was.