The Shadow Man (42 page)

It was late when Espy Martinez and Walter Robinson stole a moment alone in the corridor outside the interrogation room.

‘I’m exhausted,’ she said.

‘Why don’t you go home?’

She smiled. ‘Home for me is two things: boring or frustrating. Boring because I live alone and there’s nothing

there that makes me feel like who I really want to be; frustrating because no sooner will I close the door before the phone will ring and it will be my parents calling from their half of the duplex. My mother will want to know what I’m doing and who I’m doing it with and a dozen other questions I don’t want to answer.’

She shook her head. ‘Too tired to really sort these things out, Walter. But being with you is, I don’t know, an adventure. Something way outside all the things I’ve ever done. I always did what was expected of me. And this isn’t and I like that. I like it a lot.’ She reached out and just touched her fingers against his hand. ‘Is that wrong?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I’m not sure what I think, if I think anything at all.’

‘It did come out wrong,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. Can’t we talk at some other time, when we’re not so tired?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That would be wise.’

‘I want to make this work,’ she said.

‘Me too.’

She paused. ‘I don’t want to go home tonight.’

He nodded. He was troubled, but desire overcame whatever doubts he had. He recognized this, thought himself slightly weak, and then thought that was stupid because thinking too much about any relationship was likely to doom it, and there was a great deal that remained to happen with Espy Martinez that he wanted to happen. So, instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his key chain. He worked the apartment key off the ring and handed it to her.

‘I have the chauffeur duty with our man Leroy. You go back to my place and wait up for me, okay?’

‘Would you like me to go with you?’

‘No.’ He smiled. ‘It will give me the opportunity to needle the creep without feeling guilty that I might be

violating the spirit of his agreement with the State of Florida.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Just don’t make him so pissed that he decides to run away’

‘Isn’t running anywheres, thanks to that little twenty-five caliber you tote around in your handbag.’

‘It’s still there,’ she said. She hesitated. ‘And tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow we start on Simon Winter’s plan. We’ll go see him and the other old folks with our picture.’

As he said this, the door to the interrogation room opened and the technician emerged. He was holding a white sheet of paper in his hand, staring down at it with an appraiser’s eye. He saw the two of them look up at him and he said: ‘Jefferson wasn’t too good with the eyes. I think that’s because he never got a full face look at this man. According to his story, mostly it was profiles, maybe three quarters front. Never did look the man in the eyes, which is probably a good thing for him. Other than that, I think this came out okay. What do you think?’

Walter Robinson took the drawing and held it in front of him so that they both could look at it. What they saw was a picture of a tall, big-chested elderly man who wore his years with the firmness of a person considerably younger. His chin was sturdy, like a boxer’s, with skin that remained tight. He had high-set cheekbones and a wide brow, giving the portrait the appearance of a man looking far into the distance. His hair was white, closely cropped like a soldier’s, but thick.

‘This is good,’ he said quietly.

‘Hell, Walter, you could do the same.’ The technician was aware of Robinson’s hobby.

‘So, that’s the Shadow Man,’ Espy Martinez said.

‘I don’t think the eyes are right,’ the technician repeated.

‘I just couldn’t get them.’

The eyes in the drawing were dull, vacant.

‘No,’ the detective said. ‘These could be anyone’s eyes. Not a killer’s.’

Eyes like razors, he thought. Walter Robinson held the picture in his hands and wondered what the rabbi and Frieda Kroner would say when they saw it.

The King Apartments looked very much the same as they did the night Walter Robinson arrived there to arrest Leroy Jefferson. He pulled his vehicle to the curb, crunching over some broken glass. There were midnight noises throughout the distance, all accompanied by the faraway sound of a fire engine with its deep-throated horn sounding urgently as it pushed through the inner city night.

‘Home sweet home,’ Robinson said.

Jefferson nodded. ‘Ain’t much, is it?’

‘Can’t say it is.’

‘Maybe I’ll get someplace new now. This place got a lot of bad luck connected to it.’

‘What sort of bad luck, Leroy?’

‘It’s bad luck to get busted,’ he replied, grinning. ‘Even if you do find a way out.’

Robinson exited the car, retrieved the wheelchair from the trunk, and opened the rear door so that Jefferson could swing himself out, into the seat. This the man did, with an agility that made Robinson believe the pain in his leg had diminished some. Either that or he was eager to find what he knew was waiting for him.

‘You want me to help you upstairs?’ he asked.

Jefferson shook his head, still grinning. ‘Ain’t too interested in having my neighbors know I been helping the police. They don’t consider this a necessarily good thing, you know.’

‘Not part of the local idea of civic duty, huh?’

‘You got that right.’

‘How’re you going to get up the stairs?’

‘Maybe somebody’s fixed the elevator. If not, I’ll figure it out. Ain’t your business anyways.’

Jefferson gave the wheels a push and rolled a few feet away, up onto the walkway. Then he spun the chair about and looked back at the detective.

‘I did what you asked, right?’

‘Yes. So far, so good.’

‘I told you I’d keep my part of the bargain.’

‘Just keep keeping it.’

‘You ain’t got enough trust in human nature, detective.’ Jefferson laughed. ‘Can’t even tell when somebody’s helping you out. Wouldn’t have no case against that old dude, ‘cept for me.’

‘You just keep cooperating, Leroy. Don’t move. Don’t go anywhere. And don’t get into any trouble. Got that?’

‘Sure.’

Jefferson laughed. The sound echoed down the street. He rolled the wheelchair back a foot or two, then added: ‘You know, you ain’t so far from all this, Detective. Put on that suit, act like the man, but truth is, could be you right here and me right there.’

Walter Robinson shook his head. ‘Nope. You’re wrong.’

But he didn’t know whether this was true or not. He did know, however, that Espy Martinez was waiting for him, and he thought that more than anything else, at that moment right then, he wanted to get out of Liberty City, wanted to leave the King Apartments and return to the other world he lived in.

Leroy Jefferson laughed again, mocking the detective. He could feel a surge of exhilaration within him, and for the first time, as he measured the distance between himself

and the detective, truly thought that he’d managed to beat the system.

‘It feels real good to be free,’ he said. ‘Be seeing you.’ He spun the chair again and eagerly started rolling toward the apartment building. He did not look back as Robinson scowled, irritated but accepting, and climbed into the cruiser, quickly slamming the car into gear and accelerating through the coffee-black night.

To his surprise, the elevator was operating.

Leroy Jefferson thought this was a good sign, as the dull steel doors jerked to a close. There was a momentary pause, then a grinding sound before the elevator rose. The interior light dimmed once as it reached the second floor, and the doors seemed oddly reluctant to open, but eventually they did, and he pushed himself out onto the landing, thinking that everything around him was working quite as well as it ever had.

He maneuvered down the landing toward his apartment, breathing raspily with the exertion required to push the wheelchair. He could feel sticky sweat beneath his arms, dripping down his forehead across his cheeks and finally dropping from his chin to his chest. It was an irritating sweat, caused by hard work and humid, still summer air, not the genuine sweat of athletic motion. He gritted his teeth and thought: ain’t never gonna be running up no court on a fast break again, and he inwardly cursed Espy Martinez and her unlucky shot, which had left him in such awkward pain. He slapped at the wheelchair and reminded himself that the doctors had estimated he’d be out of it within a month or so, which he wanted, because until he had his motion back, he didn’t see much of an opportunity to create any income.

He knew he’d be all right for a while. He smiled to

himself. Fucking detective was right. He kept a private stash behind a loose tile in the bathroom, two hundred dollars and a similar amount of rock cocaine in a plastic bag, thrust down between the plumbing pipes where it couldn’t be seen even if you found the right tile. You had to snake your arm way down and know what you were looking for. He thought: maybe take a little taste, sell the rest. Gonna be okay just as soon as I get back on my feet, even with a limp. Things gonna work out. They always do. He lifted a hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead, concentrating on the stash. Just a little taste, he repeated to himself. He paused outside the door to his apartment. The tattered remains of yellow police tape hung limply from the cracked and splintered door frame. The door itself had been replaced, but ineffectively. He reached out and pushed at it, and it swung open. Unlocked.

‘Goddamn junkies, probably stole everything,’ he said out loud.

He shifted about in the seat of the wheelchair and bellowed back over his shoulder: ‘You fucking people. Got no respect for other folks’ shit!’

There was no one outside to hear his complaint, but from a distant room he heard one voice yell, ‘Fuck you!’ and from the opposite end of the corridor another shouted, ‘Shut the fuck up!’

He waited for a moment, to see if there were any other responses, but silence gripped the neighborhood. He couldn’t see anyone on the street, or on any of the landings. He felt alone, which did not bother him, because he was not eager to share what he had waiting for him inside behind that false tile.

He remembered what Walter Robinson had said: home sweet home.

He pushed the door wide and rolled himself inside.

The apartment was hot, still, as if a month’s oppressive days were collected within the walls. He slammed the door back shut behind him and reached out for the wall light switch.

His hand did not reach the wall. It was interrupted by an iron grip clamping down on his forearm.

In the same instant he heard an ice voice: ‘No, I don’t think we need any light quite yet, Mr Jefferson.’

Fear like a runaway engine accelerated through him. ‘Who are you?’ he choked.

The voice had moved around behind him and made a small laugh before answering. ‘But you know, don’t you, Mr Jefferson?’

The man seemed to pause, then he asked:

‘You tell me: Who am I?’

At the same time as these words slid about in the darkness of the apartment, Jefferson was suddenly jerked backward, as the man released his arm and shifted his grip, throwing a muscled forearm across Jefferson’s forehead, tugging his head back, exposing his neck. He gasped, reaching up involuntarily as he felt a knife-icicle at his exposed throat.

‘No, Mr Jefferson, put your hands down. Don’t make me kill you before we’ve had a chance to talk.’

His own hands, fingers straining toward the blade, stopped in midair. Slowly he dropped them to the wheels at his side. His mind was moving quickly now, roaring past all the fear, trying to think of something to do. He opened his mouth to call for help, but then stopped, shutting it with a snap. Ain’t no one gonna come, no matter what you say, he reminded himself. And maybe the dude’ll cut your throat before you get the second word out. He remembered the choking cry that was all that Sophie Millstein

managed before death. It made him shudder; he could sense fear loosening his control over his bowels, but he fought this, breathing hard and fast, controlling the quiver that found his hands, the twitch that discovered his eyelids. Talk your way out, he told himself. Keep talking. Make a deal.

‘That’s better,’ the voice said. ‘Now slowly bring your hands behind the chair, wrists together.’

‘You don’t gotta do that, man. I’m gonna tell you whatever you need to know.’

‘Excellent, Mr Jefferson. That is very reassuring. Now move your hands back slowly. Think of it this way: Any knot I tie, I can always untie. Alexander the Great proved that. Do you know who Alexander is, Mr Jefferson? No? I didn’t think so. But you do know this, don’t you: It’s always wiser to indulge a man who holds a knife at your throat.’

The flat voice seemed patient, cold, with only a slight urgency at its fringe. But the knife blade bit against his skin, its demands obvious. The pressure increased just slightly, enough to draw a small line of blood. Jefferson pushed his hands behind him, as asked. He felt the knife slide around his throat, to his ear, to the nape of his neck, before easing away. He had a momentary urge to jump right then, to fight back, but just as swiftly the urge departed. He told himself: stay cool. You can’t run and you can’t fight. There was a ripping sound and he felt his hands being bound with duct tape.

When his arms were immobilized, Jefferson felt the chair being wheeled into the center of the room. He waited, breathing like a runner trying to catch the leaders in a race.

‘Who are you, man? What you want? What you got to tie me up for? I ain’t going nowheres.’

‘That’s correct, Mr Jefferson.’ ‘Who are you, man? What’s the deal?’ ‘No, Mr Jefferson. That’s my question for you: Who am I?’

‘Man, I got no idea. Some crazy white dude, that’s who

you are.’

The voice laughed again. ‘Not a good start, Mr Jefferson. Why would you lie to me?’

The man leaned down and poked with the knife blade at the bandages on Jefferson’s ruined knee, sending a rainbow of hurt through his body.

‘Jesus, man! What you doing? I don’t know shit!’

‘Who am I, Mr Jefferson?’

He poked again at the leg, and Leroy Jefferson gritted his teeth.