Escape the Night (42 page)

“Peter—Peter Carey.”

“Larry?” The man's voice shouted at someone. “Where's Ciano?” Coming back, it said, “We don't know.”

“Tell her to call me at work.”

“Okay, Peter.”

“Tell her they've murdered Levy.”

Peter Carey felt a hand touch his shoulder.

Phillip Carey crumpled at Martin's feet.

Englehardt turned from them. “Hide him somewhere.” His voice was hollow. “I don't wish him found for a while.”

He walked away, a thin figure in a bare, ruined warehouse. Martin did not need to question him; he understood perfectly what Englehardt had done, and all that must now happen.

The woman would be his …

“I have the key.” Knowing the answer, Martin held out the revolver. “What about this?”

Turning, Englehardt's eyes glinted with anger; Martin had forced him to look back.

For a long moment, as if acknowledging this in a way that they both would mark, Englehardt stared at Phillip's body. “As you well know,” he said icily, “the gun now belongs to Peter.”

He turned and went to the car, alone.

Gregorio watched Palmer, a crew-cut man with intense narrow eyes, sift through Levy's desk. “Is there a tape?” he asked.

“Nope, Lieutenant—pencils, pads, the index to his files, period. No sign of a break-in, either.”

“What about time of death?”

Palmer closed the drawer. “Last night between eleven and one.”

“Find Carey's psychiatric file.” Gregorio tightened the knot of his tie. “After we question him, I may want to read it.”

In slow motion, the sad-faced cop walked Carey toward an examining room with a sink and metal cot. Carey sat like a man in a catatonic trance; trapped, he could not find Noelle.

“Mr. Carey?” Carey looked up into the Italianate, too-thin face of a fortyish man with sharp features and a trim designer suit. “I'm Lieutenant Gregorio.”

Carey nodded, disoriented. There were dim lights overhead and one window with Venetian blinds slicing gray light into faint gray ribbons on a gray tile floor. In the same even voice, Gregorio said, “Please explain about the tape.”

“It's of me, under hypnosis.” Speaking, Carey felt numb. “I have amnesia—the tape was my subconscious memory of the car wreck which killed my parents. Afterwards, I still couldn't remember it.”

Gregorio leaned back against the wall. “Then how do you know that the tape killed Levy?”

Carey saw the sharp-eyed man look up from his notes. “He left a message on my answering machine asking me to come to his office, that he'd listened to the tape. He sounded frightened.”

“He hadn't heard it before?”

“No. A psychologist taped me—Pogostin.”

“And
he
didn't tell you?”

“No.” Carey remembered clutching Pogostin's shirt. “He said he didn't work that way.”

“This message—you received it this morning?”

“I didn't find it until this morning. He must have called last night, when I was out.”

Gregorio raised an eyebrow. “So you didn't actually speak to him.”

“No.”

“Or come here last night.” Gregorio's voice conveyed neither belief nor disbelief, but an endless patience, unsettling as the dripping of water. Carey kept thinking of Noelle …

“No, for Christsakes.”

Gregorio folded his arms. “Who would murder Levy for your tape?”

Carey heard the second policeman writing. “I don't know who they are,” he said wearily. “Someone's been following my girl friend, Noelle Ciano—an ugly man with thick lips.”

“But how would anyone else know about the tape?”

Carey could not answer.

“Or know what's on it?”

“I don't know.” Carey looked away. “My uncle was the only witness to the accident.”

“Where can we find him?”

“I don't know.” Suddenly, Carey wished to jerk open the blinds. “He said something about vacation.”

“Where?”

In the dazed manner of a boxer, Carey shook his head.

“Levy's message, Mr. Carey—where were you that you didn't answer the telephone?”

“At the Sutcliffe concert.”

Gregorio stroked a concave cheek with one elegant finger. “What about afterwards?”

“At my place—with Noelle.”

“Where does
she
work?”

“For the
Times
.” The cut on Carey's lip stung; nervous, he touched it. “But she's not there now.”

“Pardon me, the gash on your lip. Where did you get that?”

“Last night—at the Garden.” Carey felt himself being swept into a riptide. He stood with his fists clenched. “Find Noelle, dammit. You're wasting time.”

Gregorio adjusted his handkerchief. “We'll speak with her. Right now, I'd appreciate your picking up Levy's message and coming downtown for a statement.”

Carey saw himself trapped in a precinct house while Levy's murderer stalked Noelle. “Tomorrow,” he snapped, and bolted from the room.

“Why did you ask me about the gun?” Englehardt said softly.

Martin chose to ignore his meaning. “Even with Phillip's signature,” he responded, “it's a problem framing Peter.”

He was driving across the George Washington Bridge; the Hudson looked gray and dirty as the sky. Snow began falling on the windshield. Behind him, Englehardt answered tonelessly, “Bring me the woman. She'll make him come.”

Martin flicked on the windshield wipers; rubber squeaked in a grating rhythm. Abruptly, Englehardt snapped, “Turn those off.”

Martin felt danger on his spine and the back of his neck. He did not touch the wipers. “Easier to wait inside his apartment and kill him with a silencer.”

“I need him away from there.” Englehardt's voice was brittle. “You know that.”

Martin smiled in the rear-view mirror. Slowly, he answered, “Still, you make it hard …”

The words had no inflection.

There was a sharp intake of breath; Martin's feigned monotone, used for the first time after years of solitary practice, was eerily, perfectly Englehardt's. The wipers kept squeaking.

“Give me Carey,” Englehardt hissed. “And you can have her first.”

Carey threw open the door.

Ruth Levy sat in front of his desk. He stopped in the doorway, stunned. “Bill … your brother …”

There were tears in her eyes.

“They called,” she said simply.

The gallant squaring of her shoulders ran through him like his father's remembered smile. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I'm sorry.”

She looked away. “He was such a sweet fool.”

Carey closed the door behind him. “It's okay, Ruthie.”

“I mean, he depended on the notion I depended on him.” She stood, shaking her head.

Carey put his arms around her.

With sudden fierceness, Ruth hugged him close. “Oh, Peter, it's going to be
so
hard.”

Carey felt her thin frame shaking. “I know.”

Suddenly, Ruth's head snapped back; her eyes locked with his. “It's so much like your father.”

Carey felt the words like shock. “What is?”

There was a knock on the door; Carey's assistant was staring in at them. “There's a Sergeant Palmer here, for Ruth.”

The crew-cut man came through the door, softly asking, “Miss Levy?” Ruth nodded in slow motion; he took her arm, ignoring Carey. “I've come to take you home.”

Carey reached out. “Wait.”

Palmer turned, his eyes boring in. “
We'll
take her,” he snapped, and then Ruth began sobbing.

Carey let her go.

His assistant watched from the doorway. “What happened?”

“
It's so much like your father
…”

Still staring, Carey answered, “Someone killed her brother.”

Blood gushed from her eyes
.

“Jesus.”

Carey turned on her. “Did Noelle call?”

Martin slipped into the apartment and walked to Carey's desk. Opening the drawer, he found a cassette recorder—one that Peter used at home—with “Peter Carey” laminated to the side.

Perfect
, he thought, and slipped it into the pocket of his overcoat.

He already knew how he would use Levy's message; his stereo had picked it up, and now Martin had memorized the words. Pushing the “message play” button, he heard Levy pleading, “Come to my office, Peter. Please, I've …”

Martin erased the rest.

Playing it back, he heard what he desired: Levy, calling in the middle of the night, his message cut off by Peter Carey, answering.

Carey dialed his telephone.

“Photography,” a male voice answered.

“This is Peter Carey again—I've got to find Noelle. Do you know where she is?”

“Just a minute.”

Gripping the phone, Carey heard muffled words about “police,” and then the voice said, “She's kind of roaming today, picking up her own stuff. If she checks in, we'll have her call you …”

Carey hung up.

He called Phillip's home, then Noelle's; finding no one, he dialed again.

“Phillip Carey's office.”

“Let me speak to him.”

“Peter? He's still out, I guess. Hey, were you at that concert last night …”

“He can't just fucking vanish. Where is he?”

“I don't know.” Silence. “I tried at home just now—there was a meeting on his calendar.”

“Has he said anything about vacation?”

“No-o-o.”

“Then send someone over there—one of the mailroom boys.”

“But if he doesn't answer his telephone?”

“Just send him. The key's in the milk-chute.”

Slamming down the telephone, Carey dialed once more.

“Dr. Pogostin's office.”

“This is Peter Carey. May I speak to him?”

“I'm sorry.” The voice abruptly cooled. “Dr. Pogostin has an appointment outside the office. I really don't know when he'll be back.”

“Have him call me as soon as he comes in.”

There was silence. “Is there some message?”

“Tell him that I have to know what's on that tape.”

Palmer rushed into the squad room. “Pogostin's on his way.”

Glancing up from Levy's notes, Gregorio eyed the metal desks and stained linoleum as if annoyed by the need to entertain there. “Call Cronin at the D.A.'s office—we may want a warrant for Carey's answering machine.” He checked his cuffs. “Based on what was worrying Levy, I don't think we should wait.”

Entering the Krantzes', Martin heard the voice of Carey's lawyer: “From the top, Peter—where do the police come in?”

“I said I thought someone killed him for the tape. But listen, I was with Noelle last night.”

“Congratulations, then. On two counts.”

“He was my
friend
.”

“Okay—sorry. When we visit the police tomorrow, we'll bring Noelle with us.”

“I can't find her.”

“Settle down, Peter.”

“Or Phillip,
or
the Krantzes.”

“Who are
they?
”

“My neighbors. They disappeared the weekend I went skiing—the doorman said they'd moved. Something may have happened to them.”

“Because they didn't tell you they were moving?” The inquiry was flat, incredulous. “Look, Peter, they murder people every
day
in Manhattan, not every
hour
. You're bucking the odds.”

In the silence of the Krantzes' apartment, Martin laughed aloud.

“Just check who bought the Krantzes' place.”

“I thought they were dead.” Martin heard Benevides's incredulity becoming wariness. “For years you've suspected Phil without a concrete reason; not so long ago, you woke me from a sound sleep to inquire where
Barth
was when your parents died, which turned out to be Oklahoma. Now you …”

“Dammit, you're my lawyer.”

“Among other people's,” Benevides snapped. “I'll check when I have time. Now you do
me
two favors. First, mourn your friend quietly, with a drink. Second, when Noelle turns up, ask her to come with you to my office tomorrow, nine o'clock.
She's
your witness, not Uncle Phillip or the Krantzes. And if you don't stop acting crazy, she'll be the only thing that saves you.”

Martin nodded, and then stepped from the apartment to retrieve Noelle Ciano.

Carey replaced the telephone, and then the room crashed down around him.

He could not move: were Noelle to call, he must be there to warn her.

Levy was dead.

“
Tell me, Peter, is there any reason you might feel guilt concerning your father's death?
”

His memory killed him.

Carey fought to remember.…

“
It's too dark down there for elephants, Daddy
…”

The child Peter stood in darkness, and then a door opened in his memory.

“
Peter!
”

The child saw the wheel of a sports car, and then nothing.

The man Peter Carey shook his head.

Levy was dead.

“
Why did you return to take your father's place, Peter? Because you hated Phillip?
”

Carey turned to his father's picture.

“
Even brothers need their privacy, Peter
.”

Carey froze.

Phillip bent to kiss him
.

He closed his eyes; not Phillip,
his father
…

“
I'll bring him up in a while
.”

“
Promise?
”

“
Promise
.”

Charles Carey's picture smiled down at him.

Levy was dead.

“
You feel guilt over your grandfather's death?
”

“
I suppose so
.”