‘Killed?’ Harper said, almost involuntarily. His mind was reeling.
‘Killed,’ Evelyn stated matter-of-factly. ‘And we know who killed him, don’t we Walter?’
Harper turned and looked at Freiberg.
‘That’s right,’ Evelyn said. ‘Our friend Uncle Walt, instructed by your father of course, took the situation in hand and murdered my husband. And then there was only me left . . . only me that stood between Edward Bernstein and his son. And that was the greatest irony of all.’ Evelyn paused, smiled, started to laugh to herself. ‘Two days after Garrett died your father was arrested and sent to prison. He was sent to prison for something else entirely, and he didn’t come out until some time after you’d left for Florida. And he could have found you, he could have found you very easily—’ Evelyn turned and looked at Harper. ‘He could’ve found you so very easily, but you know what? He’d been away for that many years, and whatever had existed in his mind had long since faded away. He didn’t want you any more. Two people had died, two people he’d believed had stood in his way, and it was almost like he reached a point where there was nothing stopping him from finding you, from speaking with you, from telling you who he was, and at that point, when it was right there for him to take, he didn’t want it any more.’
Evelyn looked at Freiberg.
‘And then Edward spoke to Ben Marcus, told him that he wanted to sell his territory. Ben Marcus figured he could take it with a lot less expense. He agreed with Edward, and as soon as Edward started paying his dues, letting people go . . . as soon as Ben Marcus figured that Edward was vulnerable, he paid Thomas to shoot him. When Edward was shot Walter’s best-laid plans started to fall apart. He didn’t know what was going to happen. Maybe he figured he should cover all bases and have you as close as possible, make you obvious . . . and to see that I said nothing to the police.’
Walt Freiberg shook his head. He turned towards Harper. ‘John, none of this is true—’
‘I told you to shut the hell up, Walter!’ Evelyn snapped. ‘You had your chance to speak and you didn’t take it. Interrupt me again and—’
‘John, believe me—’
‘Believe you?’ Evelyn said. ‘Christ Walter, when was it ever the case that someone should believe you?’
‘Believe me now,’ Walt Freiberg said. ‘Believe me now. Believe that I didn’t have anything to do with your mother’s death, and I sure as hell wasn’t responsible for Garrett’s murder—’
‘Give me a reason,’ Harper said.
Freiberg looked at him, frowned slightly.
‘Give me one good reason . . . one good solid reason to believe you Walt.’
Freiberg hesitated.
‘Where’s Cathy?’ Harper asked.
‘Cathy?’
‘Yes, you know? Cathy Hollander? Where is she, Walt?’
‘She didn’t make it John,’ someone said from the hallway.
They all turned – Freiberg, John Harper, Evelyn, even Thomas McCaffrey. They all turned at the sound of another voice beyond the kitchen door, and before anyone could speak Frank Duchaunak appeared in the doorway, in his hand the .45, an expression on his face like everything was coming together, everything was tying up tight like shoelaces, and he was the one who’d done it.
‘She was there at the bank, right Walter?’ Duchaunak said.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Evelyn asked.
For a moment McCaffrey seemed unsure as to whether he should aim the gun at Duchaunak or keep it trained on Freiberg.
‘Figured this is where John would come,’ Duchaunak said. ‘Figured it was time for a few lies and untruths to be dispelled.’ He looked at Harper, at Freiberg, then at Thomas McCaffrey.
‘We haven’t been introduced,’ Duchaunak said. ‘You are?’
‘This is Thomas McCaffrey,’ Evelyn said. ‘The man Ben Marcus paid to shoot Edward Bernstein.’
Duchaunak nodded. ‘McCaffrey,’ he said. ‘You have a brother and a sister, right?’
McCaffrey frowned, started to look nervous. ‘What about them?’
Duchaunak shook his head. ‘They put in a Missing Persons on you,’ he lied.
‘We were just talking,’ Evelyn said.
‘Dispelling some little white lies, right?’ Duchaunak said.
Evelyn smiled. ‘We were doing just that,’ she said. ‘I was explaining to John how my husband killed Anne, and then Walter killed my husband . . . all because of Edward Bernstein.’ She shook her head. ‘It still amazes me that one man could have created so much hurt and pain and destruction in so many lives.’
‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ Duchaunak said. He took another step into the room. He looked to his left, looked over at Freiberg who sat motionless, and then to his right at Harper.
‘Go take a seat with your aunt,’ he said. He waved his gun in the direction of the table.
Harper stepped across McCaffrey’s line of fire and took a seat on the other side of the table.
‘So here’s another one for your collection Walter,’ Duchaunak said. ‘And maybe John will appreciate this.’
Harper looked up, first at Freiberg, then at Duchaunak.
‘I told you a couple of things about Cathy Hollander,’ Duchaunak said to Harper. ‘Told you she wasn’t only called Cathy Hollander, remember?’
Harper nodded.
‘Right, sure you remember. Told you she went by the name of Margaret Miller and Diane Sheridan.’ Duchaunak smiled knowingly. He looked at Freiberg. ‘This one’s for you Walter. Seems her real name is actually Ruth Delaney.’
Freiberg shook his head. ‘You what? What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Federal Agent Ruth Delaney, FBI Crime Task Force . . . she got your number Walt, Edward’s too, and Ben Marcus and the whole sorry collection of wasters and assholes and fuckwits that you associate with. All of you, every single one of you is done for. We already have Beck and Parselle, Ron Dearing, Joe Koenig, though it’s uncertain he’ll make it, ’cause he got shot in the spine while he was trying to run away. We got Ricky Wheland and Karl Merrett—’
‘Bullshit!’ Freiberg snapped. ‘You’re just talking bullshit, Duchaunak.’
‘Whatever you say Walt, whatever you say. Fact of the matter is that the whole house of cards you people built is crashing down around your fucking ears, and here you are, sat on a chair in Evelyn’s kitchen and too fucking frightened to move.’
‘I saw her shot,’ Freiberg said, in his voice a tone of anger. ‘I saw her get shot right there in the bank.’
‘Sure you did,’ Duchaunak replied. ‘You saw exactly what you were supposed to see. You saw someone with a bulletproof vest get hit by a rubber bullet and go down.’
Freiberg was silent, his eyes blinking rapidly, looking at Evelyn, at McCaffrey, back to Duchaunak, across to Harper.
Maybe he was frightened; maybe he was just desperate; perhaps it was simply that Duchaunak had goaded him into responding. Whatever the reason Walt Freiberg moved, surprisingly quickly.
Regardless, he was not quick enough.
Evelyn Sawyer, incensed with anger, with guilt, with the tension of all that had happened, snatched the gun from McCaffrey and jerked the trigger back. The recoil almost knocked her from the chair; she was not used to firing a handgun, or any other type of gun for that matter. But her aim was sufficiently good, the range sufficiently close, and the bullet – a .38 caliber – hit Walter Freiberg in the throat and put him on the floor.
Harper and Duchaunak – deafened, stunned – didn’t move.
Didn’t even move when Evelyn turned and looked at Harper, when she shook her head and smiled, when she raised the very same gun and pressed it to her temple.
No, Harper mouthed. And then he voiced it. ‘No, Evelyn! Nooo!’ and his hand reached out towards her.
‘I’m sorry, John,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so, so sorry . . .’
She pulled the trigger.
She was dead before Freiberg, but only by seconds, and perhap
s Freiberg’s frantic clutching, the way he clawed at his own neck in an attempt to take out the bullet, to tear the pain out of himself, to stem the rush of blood that jetted from the wound and spread quickly across the floor, filling the gaps between the ceramic tiles . . . perhaps his movements were nothing but involuntary nervous reactions, his brain fighting for survival even when survival had ceased to be an option.
Harper reacted; he lunged from his seat towards Evelyn, grabbing at her in some desperate attempt to stop her long after the point at which anything could have been done.
Duchaunak flattened himself against the wall, raised his .45 and aimed it directly at McCaffrey. McCaffrey – still stunned, speechless, his eyes wide – backed up and raised his hands.
Duchaunak kept the gun steady, but managed to grab Harper’s jacket collar, held him back, almost fighting with him, dragging him away from where he kneeled on the floor.
‘No!’ he was shouting. ‘John . . . no! No! Don’t touch them! Don’t touch anything!’
Eventually, unable to even register what had happened, unable to find words to describe, to define, to determine the consequence of such events, John Harper rose to his feet and stepped back against the wall.
‘Don’t do anything,’ Duchaunak said. ‘Don’t touch them, don’t move anything!’
Harper looked at Duchaunak; in his eyes a complete vacancy of emotion.
‘You!’ Duchaunak snapped at McCaffrey.
McCaffrey didn’t move.
‘Step over there to the right.’
McCaffrey did as he was told.
Duchaunak leaned forward and took the gun from Evelyn Sawyer’s hand. He tucked it in his jacket pocket. He stood up, nodded to the two bags that had been at Freiberg’s feet and told McCaffrey to pick them up.
McCaffrey complied, said nothing, merely stood there with an expression of horror on his face.
‘You come with me,’ he said to McCaffrey. McCaffrey nodded and took a step towards the kitchen door.
Duchaunak looked down at Harper. ‘Get up, John,’ he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. ‘Walter left a yellow cab out in the street.’ He smiled. ‘Smart people, huh? They had four of them . . . they were going to lose themselves in the taxi driver’s parade in the city.’ Duchaunak shook his head resignedly. ‘Today they were not smart enough.’
Harper pushed himself away from the wall and started towards the door. He paused for a moment, daring himself to look back, to survey the devastation that had occurred within the narrow confines of a room so reminiscent of his childhood.
He couldn’t do it. He held his breath for a moment, closed his eyes, and then stepped out into the hallway and made his way to the front door.
He believed, and was correct in his belief, that he was leaving the house on Carmine for the very last time.
Duchaunak motioned for McCaffrey to follow Harper.
The three of them moved quickly and quietly out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and left the house for the street.
Duchaunak had McCaffrey drive the yellow cab. Told him to drive to the American Regent. They dropped John Harper off at the front entrance. Duchaunak told Harper to go to his room, to wait there, that someone would come and speak with him. Said he was taking McCaffrey and the money to his precinct, to Captain McLuhan, that there was a Federal Agent waiting for him.
Once Harper was out of sight Frank Duchaunak told Thomas McCaffrey about his brother and sister. McCaffrey got hysterical. Duchaunak slapped him repeatedly, jammed Dietz’s gun in his ribs and told him to ‘quiet the fuck down’.
‘Ben Marcus had them killed,’ he told McCaffrey. ‘He had two of his people go visit with them, wanted to see if they knew where you were. They didn’t know a thing. When they were done asking questions Marcus’s people killed them both.’
Then Duchaunak told McCaffrey to drive over to the warehouse on West and Bloomfield near Pier 53.
Duchaunak had McCaffrey park the car across the street. He pointed up towards the second floor. ‘Ben Marcus is inside that building,’ Duchaunak said, and then he took Ray Dietz’s gun from his jacket pocket and gave it to McCaffrey.
‘You should go in there and collect the fifty grand he owes you . . . and take whatever else you feel is adequate recompense for your brother and sister. I’ll wait here for you, okay?’
McCaffrey frowned, shook his head. ‘I don’t—’
‘You go see Ben Marcus,’ Duchaunak said. ‘You go tell him whatever’s on your mind.’
McCaffrey hesitated for a moment, and then he reached for the door lever and stepped out.
‘One other thing,’ Duchaunak said.
McCaffrey turned.
‘Give Ben Marcus a message for me would you? Tell him that Sonny Bernstein was a newspaper reporter . . . just that.’
McCaffrey frowned. ‘Sonny Bernstein was a newspaper reporter? What the fuck does that mean?’
Duchaunak smiled and shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. Ben Marcus will understand what it means. Just tell him that would you? Tell him that from me.’
McCaffrey nodded. ‘Sure I’ll tell him . . . and you’re going to wait here, right?’
‘Sure I am,’ Duchaunak replied, and smiled.
Frank Duchaunak did wait. He waited all of four or five minutes, and when he heard the first three shots in quick succession he started the engine and shifted gear.
When the fourth and fifth shot came he pulled away and depressed the accelerator.
He smiled at the irony. Ray Dietz’s gun, a gun that had once belonged to Garrett Sawyer, had killed Walt Freiberg, Evelyn Sawyer, and now Ben Marcus.
If Edward Bernstein didn’t make it . . . well, that would be the sharpest irony of all.
Frank Duchaunak glanced over his shoulder at the two canvas bags on the back seat, and then he reached forward and switched on the radio.
SIXTY-NINE
She came later, Cathy Hollander, Ruth Delaney, whatever her name was.
Came to the American Regent and sat with Harper in silence for some time.
She tried to explain who she was, what she did, how she had done her best to protect him from the violence of these people. She had done what she’d been capable of, nothing more nor less, for she believed in her purpose, and her purpose and duty dictated her actions. Not her emotions. Nor her humanity.
‘And me?’ he asked her.
She looked at him, her eyes wide, and then she shook her head.
‘You don’t have anything to say?’
‘What do you want me to say?’ she asked.
Harper laughed dismissively. Somewhere within him was the desire to make her feel bad. ‘What do I want you to say? I don’t want you to say anything.’
She stepped forward. ‘I let you think that I—’
‘You speak about emotions. Humanity. You think such things are the sole preserve of people like you? You let me think what you wanted me to think.’ Harper glared at her. ‘You led me on Cathy . . . aah, fuck, whatever the hell your name is now. You led me on. You let me think what you wanted me to think, and then when it became something altogether a little too real you just dismissed it. I have something to say about—’
‘I know,’ she interjected. ‘And I’m sorry—’
‘I don’t want your apology.’ Harper rose from his chair and took a step towards her. ‘You wanna know what I want? I’ll tell you, plain and fucking simple. I want my fucking life back, okay? If you can’t give me that then I don’t want anything.’
Ruth Delaney did not reply.
Harper smiled bitterly and sat down again. ‘So tell me what happens now? Let’s keep this strictly business . . . after all, that was all it ever was to you, right?’
She tried to apologize again, to attempt some explanation, but Harper cut her short.
‘You don’t want to hear anything that I have to say?’ she asked.
‘I want to hear how the fuck I get out of here and go home,’ he said, his voice sharp and direct.
She nodded. ‘Okay,’ she replied. ‘Okay.’ She said that someone had called in regarding the house on Carmine. That the call was anonymous. There were people over there even now, people gathering the evidence needed for a clear understanding of what had happened.
‘I know what happened,’ Harper told her.
‘You don’t need to say anything now,’ she said. ‘There will be more than enough time to speak later.’
Of the crews, those who had undertaken the robberies that morning, she told him that they had all been arrested. All but two. Sol Neumann and Victor Klein were dead.
As was Edward Bernstein.
Passed away quietly, silently, at two-thirteen p.m., afternoon of Christmas Eve.
Harper said nothing. There was nothing to say.
After a while Harper asked her if she knew the truth of his mother, of Evelyn, Garrett, the things that had happened so many years before.
She shook her head. ‘We think that Garrett assisted in your mother’s suicide,’ she told him. ‘We aren’t sure, but from the little I gleaned from Ben Marcus and your father it seemed to make sense—’
Harper raised his hand. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I want to know any more.’
Ruth Delaney fell silent. As did Cathy Hollander, Margaret Miller, Diane Sheridan, perhaps several more.
There was silence in that room for quite a while.
Eventually she rose, stepped forward, reached out her hand and touched the side of John Harper’s face.
‘Go home,’ she whispered. ‘After you have said all you need to say you should go home . . . go back to Miami and put your life together.’
Harper looked up at her. He smiled, an expression of philosophical resignation. ‘My life?’ he asked. ‘What life would that be?’
She smiled, withdrew her hand. ‘I must go now,’ she said.
‘One question?’
She nodded.
‘Did you really read my book?’
‘Yes, I really did read your book,’ she replied.
Harper raised his eyebrows.
‘You should write another,’ she said quietly. ‘And another, and another . . . you have a gift, John Harper.’
She walked to the door, then paused with her fingers on the handle. ‘A question for you,’ she said.