The Night, The Day (10 page)

chapter 14

M
artin Rosen held his hands
comfortably around the grip, bringing the golf club back with a slow, smooth motion, then swung forward, releasing his strength as he struck through the ball, twisted around, and carried the club up toward the heavens. He lifted his head at just the right moment to observe the trajectory of his shot, and smiled at what he saw.

“She’s coming back,” Ashok Reddy said, standing behind him.

“Sure is,” Martin said, seeing how the ball, which initially appeared to be going too far to the right, was turning back in toward the middle of the fairway before landing. It was what golfers called a “draw,” a very delicate shot requiring a precise amount of spin applied at the moment of impact by a slight shift in one’s wrist motion. Too much spin and the ball would have drifted further left into a “hook.” Too little spin and the ball would have continued on a straight path to the right, probably into the rough, the woods or another fairway. Many a golfer could spend a lifetime developing a consistent draw, but Martin was a natural. From the first time he had stood on the tee box, about four years back, he had been hitting his drives this way. And still, no matter how often he succeeded, it never ceased to amaze him.

“Feels good?” Reddy asked.

“Always.”

“Looks about 260,” Reddy said, referring to the distance in yards.

“I’ll take it.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

They were on the first hole, playing with two other golfers in their regular Wednesday morning game. The four of them were all friends, and they always played for money to make things more challenging. One of the men, Thomas Ahn, a Korean who lived next door to Martin, was an orthopedic surgeon at the hospital. The other, Vic Stern, was a stogie-smoking lawyer who specialized in suing doctors for malpractice. Stern always took a bit of a verbal beating from his buddies, but he was able to handle himself. His golf game, he thanked God, in no way reflected his performance in court; in court, he usually won.

Stern took a draw on his Dominican, placed it on the ground and stepped up to the tee.

“You know, it’s dangerous to do that,” Thomas Ahn said.

“To do what?” Stern snapped. He was always a bit on edge before his first shot of the day.

“To put your cigar on the ground that way,” Ahn answered. “You can get E. coli.”

“
E. coli?
” Stern responded.

Reddy joined in. “Yeah, from the goose shit in the grass.”

Stern: “What goose shit?”

Ahn: “The goose shit from the geese.”

Stern: “I don’t see any goose shit! All I see is grass.”

Reddy: “And how do you think the grass grows?”

Stern: “What about you, Marty? You think I’m gonna get E. coli?”

Martin smiled, enjoying the banter. “Anything’s possible,” he said. “But look on the bright side, it’s a quicker death than cancer.”

Stern: “Now it’s
cancer
?”

The others laughed. It had been Stern’s contention that cigars didn’t cause cancer, and he was able to make his arguments sound halfway credible. Right now, however, that was the last thing on his mind. “Okay guys,” he said, “if you can keep your traps shut for a few seconds, I’m gonna show Marty how to hit a ball.”

He bent down, teed up his ball and looked out at the fairway. Then he took his stance, swung, and let loose with a terrible slice, sending the ball so far to the right, he’d be lucky to find it.

The other two took their shots, both decent and playable, but nothing within thirty yards of Martin. He was still beaming as he got in the cart with Reddy. The psychiatrist patted him on the back and said, “This might be your day if you keep it up.”

“That’s a big if,” Martin responded.

He ended up taking the hole with a par, one better than Reddy and Ahn, both of whom bogeyed with a five. Stern double-bogeyed after a penalty for his lost drive.

“Not a bad start, $6 richer,” Reddy said as they rode to the second tee.

“Profitable game,” Martin replied.

“You seem different today,” Reddy said.

“How so?”

“I’m not sure, and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem… happy.”

Martin appreciated the observation. Reddy was an insightful man, not just because he was a psychiatrist, but because he was a sensitive human being, something Martin had appreciated from the first time they’d met four years earlier. Their bond was strengthened by the fact that Katherine and Reddy’s wife, Savitri, had become best friends during the brief two years they had known each other.

“Do I?” Martin asked, trying to give his friend a hard time.

“Yes, you do.”

Martin smiled.

“Is there something I should know about?” Reddy asked.

“Possibly.”

“And what might that be?”

“A lady.”

Reddy was stunned, it was the last thing he’d expected to hear. “How long have you been keeping this?”

“Haven’t been keeping it. Just met her a week ago. I’ve seen her twice, the night we met, and last night for dinner.”

“Twice in one week,” Reddy said. “That sounds like a record for you.”

Martin hit his friend in the arm.

“I’m just saying that you have been…”

“I know, Ashok, I know how I’ve been.”

Reddy reflected a moment. “Do you like her?”

“I think so.”

“What is her name?”

“Cheryl, Cheryl Manning. And before you ask your next question, she’s English, lives in town, and works in public relations for Jacob Lipton.”

“
The
Jacob Lipton?”

“Yep.”

“So when do Savitri and I get to meet her?”

“You know, you sound like you’re my father.”

“Well, I’ve been meaning to tell you, Marty, I think of you like a son.”

Martin responded with another hit in the arm.

“If you keep doing that, it will ruin my golf game,” Reddy said.

“Trust me, Ashok, it’s already ruined.”

They shared a laugh. There was a short wait at the second tee, as the foursome in front of them was moving slowly. They stayed in the cart. Martin put his head back and closed his eyes, trying to catch a moment of sun. It was a resplendent day, blue sky, mid-70s, but it was September, and how many more such days were in store before the winter was anyone’s guess.

“You will bring her by though?” Reddy asked.

“When the time is right.”

“Good then, I will tell Savitri to expect you next…”

“I’ll let you know!”

Reddy took the hint and changed the subject. “By the way, how is our patient, Benoît, doing?”

The question posed a conflict for Martin. True, Reddy was the referring psychiatrist, but that did not necessarily entitle him to information. The ethical and legal requirements for exchange of information about patients to
anyone
required consent, preferably written. In this case, however, there wasn’t anything to tell beyond what Reddy had known when he’d made the referral. “The same,” Martin said.

“I would have guessed as much,” Reddy responded. “He is going to be a tough one to figure out.”

Martin nodded.

“That’s why I sent him your way, Marty. You are the miracle worker, and if you cannot untangle this, nobody can.”

Martin chuckled, though Reddy’s flattery left him uneasy. He hadn’t been feeling great about his therapeutic skills these past few days. On the contrary, he believed his patients were being shortchanged, neglected for his own preoccupations. He had committed himself to change that, and was planning to discuss the issue with Reddy. This wasn’t the best time but, considering their schedules, it was as good as any. “You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the ‘miracle worker’ thing,” he said.

Reddy appeared curious.

“It’s just,” Martin continued, faltering, “I don’t feel like I’ve been into it recently.”

“You mean you have been distracted?”

“I guess you could put it that way.”

“This woman?”

“And other things.”

“What other things?”

“Life, I suppose.”

Reddy looked empathic.

“There was another woman recently,” Martin continued, “in Chicago.” He searched for Reddy’s reaction, but the man was not surprised. “It was, how should I put it, confusing. My head was a mess.”

“Women can do that.”

“Not like this. I swear, Ashok, I was ready to check myself in someplace.”

“Hey
guys,
” Vic Stern interrupted. “Cut the yapping, it’s time to hit.”

Reddy looked at Martin. “To be continued.”

The four men hit their drives. This time, Martin pushed his ball too far to the right, landing in a fairway bunker. It would be hard for him to recover. Reddy clocked one straight down the middle of the fairway, a good 250 yards. Stern and Ahn also hit respectable shots, though not as far as Reddy’s.

Back in the cart, Reddy resumed the conversation. “It seems this woman may be getting to your golf game.”

Martin smirked. “Nothing gets to my golf game, Ashok.”

“If you could say the same about your professional life, everything would be all right.”

Martin felt chastised but not angry. He deserved the comment, he could even have predicted it, and he wondered if it was perhaps what he needed. “You’re probably right,” he replied.

“I am right.”

They approached Martin’s ball, but the foursome in front of them was once again too close to hit.

“Look, Marty,” Reddy continued, “I know it is difficult listening to people’s problems all day, especially when you have a few of your own. I don’t have any words of wisdom for you, except to say that you carry a lot of guilt and anguish in your heart. I am not one to judge whether that is right or wrong, and God knows how I would be in your situation. All I know is that you are a talented psychologist. If you are slipping, it’s no tragedy, so long as you know it and do something about it.”

“And what am I supposed to do about it?”

“
That
I do not have the answer to, but somehow
you
have to figure it out. Who knows, maybe your psyche is telling you that it is tired of all the pain it has endured, that it wants to move forward, while another part of you refuses to do so? Maybe it is time to allow yourself to heal?” Reddy stopped himself, seeming unsure whether he was overstepping his boundaries.

Martin looked at his friend warmly. The words, neither eye-popping nor disturbing, were the truth, pure and simple. He had known all this, but hearing it from someone he respected seemed to put it into perspective. And perhaps, he admitted to himself, he had just needed someone to talk to. “It’s okay, Ashok. I appreciate it,” he said, squeezing Reddy’s shoulder.

“Good, now hit the ball.”

Martin got out of the cart. “What’s the distance to the hole?”

“At least 230. Ever hit a three-wood out of a sand trap?”

“A wood in a trap?” Martin asked.

“I have seen pros do it.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to be a pro.”

“You can always play it safe and hit an iron, but then you will be out of the hole,” Reddy said with a grin.

“No, I’ll go with the wood.”

Reddy chuckled. It was a risky play at best.

Martin stepped into the sand and dug his shoes in a little for stability. The lie of the ball wasn’t all that bad, he told himself, the right swing, and he could do it. He took a deep breath, took the club back and smacked the ball with all he had. He saw that he had hit it “clean,” just as he’d intended. But out of the sand, it was anyone’s guess where it might fly. He lifted his head and watched with glee as it landed right on the edge of the green.

Reddy applauded, as did Ahn and Stern from the other side of the fairway. “It often amazes me what a person can do,” Reddy said, “if he puts his mind to it.”

chapter 15

D
an Gifford felt uneasy about
having canceled his appointment with Martin Rosen. Despite the demands of his job, he had always kept his therapy sacrosanct. Now, with his suspicions about the men in the Mercedes growing, he was determined to get some answers, and the only way to do so required he be somewhere other than the doctor’s office at that particular time.

Bobby Marcus had reported to him that police surveillance of Rosen had been uneventful. For the past week, there were no cars seen outside Rosen’s office, nor anyone following the psychologist. This only compounded Gifford’s resolve. Although it was unlikely that a pair of Colombian hit men would be driving around in a vehicle with classified license plates, Gifford couldn’t afford to dismiss the possibility altogether. There was little, if anything, that couldn’t be arranged by paying the proper people. And if the men in the car were Colombians, they might have allowed themselves to be seen as a warning, to scare him into botching the case. On the other hand, they could have just been watching and waiting for the right time to take him out, and had gotten a bit sloppy with their camouflage. Whoever they were and whatever they wanted, Gifford intended to find out now.

It was Monday morning, 8 a.m., the time he usually left Rosen’s office. It was a reach, he knew, but he figured that this was just about the best opportunity for them to get at him, since it was a steady appointment and the bad guys knew he would be alone. The rest of his schedule was not nearly as predictable.

He and Bobby Marcus sat in his car. He looked over at Marcus and smiled as the black Mercedes pulled into the exact same spot it had been in a week ago. “Well, well, what do we have here?” he said.

“Looks like you were right,” Marcus responded.

Gifford looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. “That Nassau County guy is late.”

“Hey, it’s a favor.”

Just then, someone walked up beside Marcus’ window and stuck his head in. “Anthony Marcus, it’s been a while,” the stranger said.

“Sure has,” Marcus said, reaching to shake the man’s hand. “Mike Calderone, meet Assistant DA Dan Gifford.”

Gifford shook hands with the Nassau County detective, noting the firm grip. Calderone was tall, dark-haired, green-eyed, had a soft looking face and was impeccably attired, looking more like a lawyer than a cop.

“So, what’s up?” Calderone asked.

“It’s like I told you on the phone, Mike. Suspects are sitting across the street now, as we anticipated, in a black Benz, twelve cars up. We just want to roust them a little, find out what they’re up to. It’s your turf, so I figured…”

“Yeah, you figured I got nothin’ to do with my time out here in the burbs, so I might as well volunteer for some part-time interdepartmental liaison duty.”

“Sort of,” Marcus replied.

“Look, detective,” Gifford jumped in, trying to sound official even though this whole operation was anything but, “it was our hope that
you
would do the rousting, this being your beat.”

“Don’t sweat it, counselor. Anthony and I go back some. He got me out of a little jam in your wonderful county a few years ago, said he might come calling, and here he is. So let’s just do it and get it done with.”

Marcus looked at Gifford. Gifford nodded and Marcus got out of the car. “Be back in a few,” Marcus said.

“Careful,” Gifford said.

“Always am.”

The two cops crossed the street and slowly approached the Mercedes from behind.

“Good day, gentleman,” Calderone said as he looked in the driver’s side window of the Mercedes.

Marcus made his presence known on the other side of the car, watching both men, his hand glued to his gun, still holstered under his jacket.

The men in the car looked at each other but made no move to resist.

Calderone flashed his badge. “Could you please step out of the car?”

“What’s this about, officer?” the man in the driver’s seat asked.

Marcus immediately recognized the accent as Middle Eastern. His curiosity swelled.

“Just step out of the car, please,” Calderone said.

The driver looked at his partner again, nodded, and the two slowly exited the car. Marcus noticed immediately that both of them were packing guns under their jackets.

The driver stood nose to nose with Calderone. “I demand to know what this is about!”

“May I see some ID?” Calderone asked.

“I think you ought to tell us what this is for,” the man who had been in the passenger seat said, sounding somewhat calmer than his partner.

“Look, buddy,” Calderone snapped, “I don’t know where you’re from, don’t much care either, but in
this
country, when a police officer asks you for something, you cooperate.” He knew what he was saying wasn’t completely true but figured a bunch of foreigners wouldn’t know any better.

The men looked at each other silently, neither reaching for his wallet.

“ID please,” Calderone repeated.

“I want to know what this is about,” the driver repeated, his tone suggesting that he wasn’t going to be intimidated.

“Okay, that’s it,” Calderone said, putting his hands on the driver, turning him around, placing him up against the car and spreading his legs.

Marcus didn’t like where this was going, but he followed Calderone’s lead and did the same thing with the passenger. It seemed to him that, while these strangers were submissive for the moment, they were more than capable of resisting had they been so inclined.

“What do we have here?” Calderone asked, lifting a Beretta from under the driver’s jacket.

Marcus found a similar weapon on his man.

“We have permits for those,” the driver said.

“I’ll bet you do,” Calderone said. “Let’s see ‘em.” He smiled at Marcus, they were about to find out who these guys were.

The passenger glanced at his partner, then reluctantly reached in his pocket for his wallet, pulled out his permit and handed it to Marcus. The driver did the same with Calderone.

Marcus and Calderone examined the permits. “These are diplomatic, Israeli Consulate, interesting,” Calderone said. “And what brings the Israeli Consulate out to this neck of the woods?”

Marcus was growing uneasy with Calderone’s approach. These guys were obviously professionals, probably a lot more dangerous than Calderone was assuming.

“I demand to know why you are harassing us,” the driver said. He turned around to face Calderone and Marcus. “What you are doing here is illegal, and a violation of our diplomatic immunity.”

“Well I’m more concerned with what
you’re
doing here,” Calderone said.

“I appreciate that,” the passenger said, again sounding more measured than his partner. “But as my colleague stated, we are protected under diplomatic immunity from answering your questions. Surely you don’t want to start an international incident.”

“That is correct,” Marcus interjected. “The last thing any of us needs is an incident. I’m sure you gentlemen have a perfectly reasonable explanation for your presence here, one that will satisfy us so that we don’t have to take this further.”

“Yes, officer, we do,” the passenger responded. “But I believe that we should have an explanation as to the reason for this treatment.”

Marcus looked at Calderone, who held up his hands as if to say,
it’s your call
. “Okay,” he said, “we’ve received some complaints of loitering from people who live in these buildings. The description of the vehicle and suspects fits the two of you.” It was pretty lame, he knew, but it was the best he could do. He looked at the passenger. It was quid pro quo time.

“Well, you see,” the passenger said, appearing embarrassed, “it is rather awkward, and we hope you will be discrete.”

Marcus nodded. Calderone remained stone-faced.

“We are attached,” the man said, “to a certain senior Israeli diplomat who is presently enjoying the company of a young lady who lives in that building. We accompany him wherever he goes, and he comes here a few times a week. He is a very important man in our country, married, with several children, so you can understand our difficulty.”

Marcus understood that he was getting just about as good as he gave. He would learn nothing else from these two. He handed back the permit and gun, and Calderone followed suit.

“We are sorry if we were, what you call, loitering. We will try to be more inconspicuous,” the passenger said.

“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” Calderone said.

“Is that all, officers?” the driver asked.

Marcus looked at Calderone, indicating that they’d stalemated. It was time to go. “Okay, gentlemen,” he said, “sorry for the trouble.”

When the two cops were far enough away, the driver turned to the passenger. “What the hell was that about?”

“Good question. I’m not sure.”

“Well, we are going to have to find out.”

In the distance, through the rearview mirror, the driver watched Marcus shake hands with Calderone, then get into a car in which a third man was waiting, while Calderone got into another car. It all appeared very curious. The car with Marcus and the third man pulled out and started down the street, and as it passed, the driver committed the license plate to memory. “Yes, that we will do.”

Gifford was completely bewildered. “What are two Israelis with guns and diplomatic status doing hanging around outside of Rosen’s building?”

“You don’t buy the bit about a diplomat banging some broad?” Marcus asked.

“Not much, what about you?”

“Ditto. And I bet they didn’t buy our explanation any more than we bought theirs.”

“What did Calderone think?”

“Who knows, he’s hard to read. He seemed to enjoy himself a bit too much, but in the end, he was simply repaying a favor, did his part and went home. Probably doesn’t want me to call anytime soon.”

“What’s his story?”

“Referring to what?”

“The favor he owed,” Gifford said.

“Just got him out of a jam once, that’s it,” Marcus responded curtly.

“What kind of jam?”

“You really want to know?”

“Sure. The lives of cops interest me.”

Marcus appeared lost in thought for a moment.

Gifford knew that Calderone’s problem had no relevance to anything concerning him, but what Marcus had once done for Calderone was another matter. Cops usually helped each other, it was part of the job, even when that help stretched the bounds of the law, and Gifford was curious to see just how far Bobby Marcus would go.

“It was about five years ago,” Marcus began. “Remember when our esteemed mayor wanted to improve the quality of life in this great city by ridding the streets of drugs and prostitution?”

“Last I heard, he’s still working on that.” Gifford’s voice was neutral. His opinions on the mayor were mixed, but he knew that the rank and file of the police department despised the guy.

“Yeah, well, he and the PC came up with this terrific idea: raid the brothels, massage parlors, juice bars; arrest everyone, johns, pros, pimps, you name it; sort it all out later.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Anyway, one night I’m in the 109th on graveyard and two wagons are on their way in with a bunch of pros and johns from a local rub joint. Word’s out, one of the perps is a Nassau County dick. Remember, the order was to arrest
everyone
, no exceptions. And a sergeant and a lieutenant are present on the scene to make sure it all goes according to Hoyle.”