City Of Lies (59 page)

‘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 perhaps 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.

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.

Harper turned.

‘Frank Duchaunak. He drove you here from your aunt’s on Carmine Street?’

Harper nodded.

‘And did he say where he was going?’

‘To see his Captain,’ Harper said. ‘He said I was to wait here, that someone would come and see me. He said that he’d tell them what happened at the Carmine Street house, and that he had to go and see his Captain. Why?’

She smiled, shook her head. ‘No reason,’ she said.

Harper said nothing.

‘I’ll call you,’ she said. ‘I’ll call to see you’re okay.’

‘Whatever,’ Harper said, his tone disinterested.

‘Do you want someone to talk to about this . . . I mean, apart from everything that happened . . . do you want someone to speak to about your father, about Evelyn?’

Harper turned and looked at her, an expression of disbelief on his face. ‘Talk to someone? What d’you mean?’

‘We have people who are trained to—’

‘To help me deal with this? Is that what you’re saying? You have people who are trained to deal with this shit?’ He shook his head. ‘Get out of here. Just get the fuck out of here, will you?’

She paused by the door, paused for just a moment, and then she was gone.

Harper didn’t move for a while, and then he rose slowly,
walked to the window, and leaning his hands against the glass he looked out through the spaces between his fingers.

New York, he thought. Sinatra’s town. He tried to imagine such a place being his home. It didn’t work. He bowed his head; he closed his eyes.

It was a long time before he moved.

Perhaps it is to here that I have been travelling all my life
.

He feels no pain, no emptiness. He feels nothing that demands any attention.

Above and beneath everything there is no guilt; this more than anything.

Standing there, looking out towards the keys of Fish Hawk and Snipe, beyond that Johnston and Sawyer, the name in and of itself a small and quiet irony, John Harper believes that everything has in some way turned full circle.

He took the Greyhound Bus; made eight stops between Miami and Key West. Down through Islamorada, Key Largo, Marathon and Grassy Key; two routes – one from the Florida Turnpike which wound up in Homestead, the other along I-95 which became US 1 at the southern end of Miami. Both roads made it to the Overseas Highway, but this time he’d kept on going.

And there was something about this place – all thirty-one punctuations of limestone, the eight hundred uninhabited islands that surrounded them – that forever gripped his imagination. Here, on this awkward peninsula of hope, he believed himself a million miles from the memory of New York.