The cops aren't buying your Houdini-cuff-escape story. They think you tried to kill her."
"What do you think?" I asked him.
"Katy's father is here. He's riled up as all hell."
"That's hardly surprising."
"It makes you wonder, though."
"You know I didn't do it, Pistillo. And despite your theatrics yesterday, you know I didn't kill Julie."
"I warned you to stay away."
"And I chose not to heed your warning."
Pistillo let loose a long breath and nodded. "Exactly, tough guy, so here's how we're going to play it." He stepped closer and tried to stare me down. I did not blink. "You're going to jail."
I sighed. "I think I've already surpassed my minimum daily requirement of threats today."
"No threat, Will. You're going to be shipped off to jail this very night."
"Fine, I want a lawyer."
He looked at his watch. "Too late for that. You'll spend the night in lockup. Tomorrow you'll get arraigned. The charges will be attempted murder and assault two. The D. A."s office will claim that you're a flight risk case in point: your brother and they'll ask for the judge to deny bail. My guess is, the judge will grant it."
I started to speak but he held up a hand. "Save your breath because and you're not going to like this I don't care if you did it or not.
I'm going to find enough evidence to convict you. And if I can't find it, I'll create it. Go ahead, tell your lawyer about this chat. I'll just deny it. You're a murder suspect who's helped hide his killer-brother for eleven years. I'm one of the country's most respected law enforcement agents. Who do you think they'll believe?"
I looked at him. "Why are you doing this?"
"I told you to stay away."
"What would you have done if you were in my place? If it was your brother?"
"That's not the point. You didn't listen. And now your girlfriend is dead and Katy Miller just barely escaped with her life."
"I never hurt either one of them."
"Yeah, you did. You caused it. If you'd listened to me, you think they'd be where they are now?"
His words hit home, but I pushed on. "And what about you, Pistillo?
What about your burying Laura Emerson's connection "
"Hey, I'm not here to play point-counterpoint with you. You're going to jail tonight. And make no mistake, I'll get you convicted."
He headed for the door.
"Pistillo?" When he turned around, I said, "What are you really after here?"
He stopped and leaned so that his lips were only inches from my ear. He whispered, "Ask your brother," and then he was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Eight.
I spent the night in the precinct holding pen at Midtown South on West 35th Street. The cell reeked of urine and vomit and that sour-vodka smell when a drunk sweats. It was still a step up from the aroma of flight-attendant cologne. I had two cellmates. One was a cross-dressing hooker who cried a lot and seemed confused about sitting or standing when using the metal toilet. My other cellmate was a black man who slept the whole time. I have no jail stories about being beaten or robbed or raped. The night was totally uneventful.
Whoever was working the night shift spun a CD of Bruce Springsteen's "Born to Run." Talk about comfort food. Like every good Jersey boy, I had the lyrics memorized. This may sound strange, but I always thought of Ken when I listened to the Boss's power ballads. We were not blue collar or suffering hard times, and neither of us had been into fast cars or hanging out on the shore (in Jersey, it's always "the shore," never "the beach") then again, judging by what I've seen at recent E Street Band concerts, that was probably true of most of his listeners but there was something in the stories of struggle, the spirit of a man in chains trying to break free, of wanting something more and finding the courage to run away, that not only resonated with me but made me think of my brother, even before the murder.
But tonight, when Bruce sang that she was so pretty he got lost in the stars, I thought about Sheila. And I ached all over again.
My one call had been to Squares. I woke him up. When I told him what happened, he said, "Bummer." Then he promised to find me a good lawyer and see what he could learn about Katy's condition.
"Oh, the security tapes from that Quick Go Squares said.
"What about them?"
"Your idea worked. We'll be able to see them tomorrow."
"If they let me out of here."
"Yeah, I guess," Squares said. Then he added, "If they don't give you bail, man, that would suck."
In the morning, the cops escorted me down to central booking at 100
Centre Street. The corrections department took over from there. I was held in a pen located in the basement. If you no longer believe that America is a melting pot, you should spend some time with the potpourri of (inhumanity that inhabits this mini-United Nations. I heard at least ten different languages. There were shades of skin color that could inspire the people at Crayola. There were baseball caps and turbans and toupees and even a fez. Everyone talked at the same time.
And when I could understand them hey, even when I couldn't they were all claiming innocence.
Squares was there when I stood before the judge. So was my new attorney, a woman named Hester Crimstein. I recognized her from some famous case, but I could not put my finger on which one. She introduced herself to me and never looked my way again. She turned and stared at the young D. A. as though he were a bleeding boar and she was a panther with an industrial-sized case of piles.
"We request that Mr. Klein be held over without bail," the young D. A. said. "We believe that he is a very serious flight risk."
"Why's that?" the judge, who seemed to be perspiring boredom from every pore, asked.
"His brother, a murder suspect, has been on the run for the past eleven years. Not only that, your honor, but his brother's victim was this victim's sister."
That got the judge's attention. "Come again?"
"The defendant, Mr. Klein, is accused of trying to murder one Katherine Miller. Mr. Klein's brother, Kenneth, is a suspect in the eleven-year-old murder of Julie Miller, the victim's older sister."
The judge, who'd been rubbing his face, stopped abruptly. "Oh, wait, I remember the case."
The young D. A. smiled as if he'd been given a gold star.
The judge turned to Hester Crimstein. "Ms. Crimstein?"
"Your honor, we believe that all charges against Mr. Klein should be dropped immediately," she said.
The judge started rubbing his face again. "Label me shocked, Ms.
Crimstein."
"Short of that, we believe that Mr. Klein should be released on his own recognizance. Mr. Klein has no criminal record at all. He has a job working with the poor in this city. He has roots in the community.
As for that ridiculous comparison to his brother, that's guilt by association at its worst."
"You don't think the people have a valid concern, Ms. Crimstein?"
"Not at all, your honor. I understand that Mr. Klein's sister recently got her hair permed. Does that make it more likely that he will do the same?"
There was laughter.
The young D. A. was feeling his oats. "Your honor, with all due deference to my colleague's silly analogy "
"What's silly about it?" Crimstein snapped.
"Our point is that Mr. Klein certainly has the resources to flee."
"That's ludicrous. He has no more means than anyone else. The reason they're making this claim is because they believe his brother fled and no one is even sure about that. He may be dead. But either way, your honor, the assistant district attorney is leaving out one crucial element in all this."
Hester Crimstein turned to the young D. A. and smiled.
"Mr. Thomson?" the judge said.
Thomson, the young D. A." kept his head down.
Hester Crimstein waited another beat and then dove in. "The victim of this heinous crime, one Katherine Miller, claimed this morning
that Mr.
Klein was innocent."
The judge did not like that. "Mr. Thomson?"
"That's not exactly true, your honor."
"Not exactly?"
"Ms. Miller claimed that she did not see her assailant. It was dark.
He wore a mask."
"And," Hester Crimstein finished for him, "she said that it wasn't my client."
"She said she did not believe it was Mr. Klein," Thomson countered.
"But, your honor, she's injured and confused. She didn't see the attacker, so she really couldn't rule him out "
"We're not trying the case here, counselor," the judge interrupted.
"But your request for no bail is denied. Bail is set at thirty thousand dollars."
The judge banged the gavel. And I was free.
Chapter Thirty-Nine.
I wanted to head up to the hospital and see Katy. Squares shook his head and told me that would be a bad idea. Her father was there. He refused to leave her side. He had hired an armed guard to stand outside her door. I understood. Mr. Miller had failed to protect one daughter. He would never let himself do that again.
I called the hospital on Squares's cell phone, but the switchboard operator said that no calls were allowed. I dialed a local florist and sent her a get-well bouquet. It seemed pretty simplistic and dumb Katy gets nearly strangled to death in my apartment and I send a basket with flowers, a teddy bear, and a mini-Mylar balloon on a stick but it was the only way I could come up with to let her know that I was thinking of her.
Squares drove his own car, a 1968 venetian-blue Coupe de Ville that was about as inconspicuous as our cross-dressing friend Raquel/Roscoe at a Daughters of the American Revolution gathering, through the Lincoln Tunnel. Tough going, the tunnel, as always. People claimed that the traffic was getting worse. I'm not so sure. As a kid, our family car in those days, one of those paneled station wagons used to creep through that tunnel every other Sunday. I remember how sluggish that trek would be, in the dark, those stupid yellow warning lights hanging batlike from the tunnel's ceiling as if we really needed to be told to go slow, that little glass booth with the worker in it, the soot painting the tunnel tiles a urine-hued ivory, all of us peering anxiously ahead for the breaking light of day, and then, finally, with those metal looking rubber dividers rising in greeting, we would ascend into the world of high-rises, an alternate reality, as if we'd traveled through a transporter. We'd go to the Ringling Bros, and Barnum & Bailey circus and twirl those little lights on a string, or maybe Radio City Music Hall for some show that dazzled for about ten minutes and then bored, or stand in line for half-priced tickets at the TKTS booth, or browse the books at the big Barnes & Noble (I think there was only one back then), or hit the Museum of Natural History, or a street fair my mom's favorite was September's New York Is Book Country on Fifth Avenue.
My father would grumble about the traffic and the parking and the all-purpose "filth," but my mother loved New York. She longed for the theater, the arts, the razz and jangle of the city. Sunny had managed to shrink herself enough to fit into the suburban world of car pools and tennis sneakers, but her dreams, those long-ago suppressed longings, were right there, right beneath the surface. She loved us, I know that, but sometimes, when I sat behind her in that station wagon and watched her looking out the car window, I wondered if she would have been happier without us.
"Smart thinking," Squares said.
"What?"
"Remembering that Sonay was a devout practitioner of Yoga Squared."
"So how did it work?"
"I called Sonay and told her our problem. She told me that Quick Go was run by two brothers, Ian and Noah Muller. She called them, told them what she wanted, and ..." Squares shrugged.
I shook my head. "You are amazing."
"Yes. Yes, I am."
Quick Go offices were housed in a warehouse off Route 3 in the heart of northern New Jersey's swamps. New Jersey gets goofed on a lot, mostly because our most-traveled byroads cut through the butt-ugliest sections of the so-called Garden State. I am one of those who staunchly defend my home state. Most of New Jersey is surprisingly gorgeous, but our critics do score points on two fronts. One, our cities are beyond decay. Trenton, Newark, Atlantic City, take your pick. They get and deserve little respect. Take Newark as a case in point. I have friends who grew up in Quincy, Massachusetts. They always say they are from Boston. I have friends who grew up in Bryn Mawr. They always say they are from Philadelphia. I grew up less than nine miles from the heart of Newark.
I have never once said or heard anyone I know say that they were from Newark.
Two and I don't care what others say there is an odor in the North Jersey marshlands. It is often faint but nonetheless unmistakable. It is not pleasant. It does not smell like nature. It smells like smoke and chemicals and a leaking septic tank. That was the odor that greeted us as we stepped out of the car at the Quick Go warehouse.
Squares said, "Did you fart?"
I looked at him.
"Hey, just trying to break the tension."
We headed into the warehouse. The Muller brothers were worth close to a hundred million dollars each, yet they shared a small office that sat in the middle of a hangarlike room. Their desks, which looked like something bought at an elementary school closeout, were pushed together facing each other. Their chairs were pre-ergonomics shellacked-wood.
There were no computers or fax machines or photocopiers, just the desks, tall metal filing cabinets, and two phones. All four walls were glassed. The brothers liked to look out at the cargo boxes and forklifts. They did not much care who looked in.
The brothers looked alike and were dressed the same. They wore what my father called "charcoal slacks" with white button-downs over V-neck Ts.
The shirts were buttoned low enough that their gray chest hair jutted out like steel wool. The brothers rose and aimed their widest smiles at Squares.
"You must be Ms. Sonay's guru," one said. "Yogi Squares."
Squares replied with a serene, wise-man head nod.
They both rushed over and shook his hand. I half expected them to take a knee.
"We had them overnight the tapes," the taller of the brothers said, clearly looking for approval. Squares deigned another nod at him. They led us across the cement floor. I heard the beep-beep of vehicles in reverse. Garagelike doors were opened and trucks were loaded. The brothers greeted every worker, and the workers responded.
We entered a windowless room with a Mr. Coffee on the counter. A TV with a coat-hanger antenna and VCR sat on one of those metal carts I had not seen since the days when the A-V kid would wheel them into my elementary school class.
The taller brother turned on the TV. Pure static blew forth. He stuck a tape in the VCR. "This tape covers twelve hours," he said. "You told me the guy was in the store around three o'clock, right?"
"That's what we were told," Squares said.
"I have it set at two forty-five. The tape moves pretty quickly since it only captures an image every three seconds. Oh, and the fast forward doesn't work, sorry. We don't have a remote control either, so just press the Play button right here whenever you're ready. We figured you'd want privacy so we'll leave. Take your time."
"We may need to keep the tape," Squares said.
"Not a problem. We can make copies."
"Thank you."
One brother shook Squares's hand again. The other I'm not making this up bowed. Then we were left alone. I approached the VCR and pressed Play. The static disappeared. So did the sound. I played with the volume button on the TV, but, of course, there was no sound.
The images were in black and white. There was a clock on the bottom of the screen. The camera pointed at the cash register from above. A young woman with long blond hair worked it. Her moving in jerky, every-three-second clips made me dizzy.
"How are we going to know this Owen Enfield?" Squares asked.
"We look for a forty-year-old guy with a crew cut, I guess."
/>
Watching now, I realized that this task might be easier than I'd first thought. The customers were all elderly and in golf-club garb. I wondered if Stonepointe catered mostly to retirees. I made a mental note to ask Yvonne Sterno.
At 3:08.15, we spotted him. His back anyway. He wore shorts and a collared shortsleeve shirt. We could not see his face, but he had a crew cut. He headed past the register and down the last aisle. We waited. At 3:09.2.4, our potential Owen Enfield turned the corner, heading back toward the long-haired blonde at the cash register. He carried a half-gallon of what looked like milk and a loaf of bread. I put my hand near the pause button so I could stop it and get a better look.
But there was no need.
The Vandyke beard might throw you off. So, too, the close-cropped gray hair. If I had casually stumbled across this tape, or if I had walked past him on a busy street, I might not have noticed. But I was anything but casual right now. I was concentrating. And I knew. I hit the pause button anyway: 3:09.51.
Any doubts were erased. I stood there, unmoving. I did not know if I should celebrate or cry. I turned toward Squares. His eyes were on me instead of the screen. I nodded at him, confirming what he already suspected.
Owen Enfield was my brother, Ken.
Chapter Forty.
The intercom buzzed.
"Mr. McGuane?" the receptionist, part of his security force, asked.
"Yes."
"Joshua Ford and Raymond Cromwell are here."
Joshua Ford was the senior partner at Stanford, Cummings and Ford, a firm that employed more than three hundred attorneys. Raymond Cromwell would thus be the note-taking, extra-hour-billing underling. Philip watched them both on the monitor. Ford was a big guy, six-four, two-twenty. He had a reputation for being tough, aggressive, nasty, and fitting that profile, he worked his face and mouth as though he were chomping on either a cigar or human leg. Cromwell, in contrast, was young, soft, manicured, and waxy-smooth.
McGuane looked over at the Ghost. The Ghost smiled, and McGuane felt another cold gust. Again he wondered about the intelligence of bringing Asselta in on this. In the end, he had decided that it would be okay. The Ghost had a stake in this too.
Besides, the Ghost was good at this.
Still keeping his eyes on that skin-crawling smile, McGuane said, "Please send in Mr. Ford alone. Make sure that Mr. Cromwell is comfortable in the waiting room."