Desperate Measures

12

Pittman was so disoriented that only when he was out on the shadowy street did he realize that he should have asked Burt to lend him some money. The Metro ride from Scarsdale into Manhattan and the taxi from his apartment to the restaurant had used all his cash. He had his checkbook, but he knew that the stores open at this hour would accept checks only for the amount of purchase. That left…

Pittman glanced nervously behind him, saw no sign that anyone was following him, and walked quickly toward Fifth Avenue. There, a few blocks south, he came to the main office of the bank he used. The automated teller machine was in an alcove to the left of the entrance. He put his access card into the slot and waited for a message on the ATM’s screen to ask him for his number.

To his surprise, a different message appeared, SEE BANK OFFICER.

The machine made a whirring sound.

It swallowed his card.

Pittman gaped. What the…? There’s got to be some mistake. Why would…?

The obvious dismaying answer occurred to him. The police must have gotten a court order. They froze my account.

Burt was right.

“Haven’t you listened to the radio? You didn’t see the evening news?” Burt had demanded. Pittman walked rapidly along a side street, checking several taverns, finding one that had a television behind the bar. Since the Chronicle and all the other New York City newspapers came out in the morning, they wouldn’t have had enough time to run a story about anything that happened to Jonathan Millgate late last night.

The only ready source of news that Pittman could think of was a cable channel like CNN. He sat in a shadowy, smoke-filled corner of the tavern and in frustration watched the fourth round of a boxing match. He fidgeted, not sharing the enthusiasm of the other patrons in the bar about a sudden knockout.

Come on, he kept thinking. Somebody put on the news.

He almost risked drawing attention to himself by asking the man behind the bar to switch channels to CNN. But just as Pittman stood to approach the counter, news came on after the fight, and Pittman was stunned to see his photograph on a screen behind the reporter. The photo had been taken years earlier when Pittman had had a mustache. His features had been heavier, not yet ravaged by grief. Nonetheless, he immediately receded back into the shadows.

“Suicidal obituary writer kills ailing diplomat,” the reporter intoned, obviously enjoying the lurid headline.

Feeling his extremities turn cold as blood rushed to his stomach, Pittman listened in dismay. The reporter qualified his story by frequently using the words alleged and possibly, but his tone left no doubt that Pittman was guilty. According to the Scarsdale police, in cooperation with the Manhattan homicide department, Pittman-suffering from a nervous breakdown as a consequence of his son’s death-had determined to commit suicide and had gone so far as to write his own obituary. Newswriters who had desks near Pittman characterized him as being depressed and distracted. He was said to be obsessed with Jonathan Millgate, an obsession that had begun seven years earlier when Pittman had become irrationally convinced that Millgate was involved in a defense-industry scandal. Pittman had stalked Millgate so relentlessly for an interview that Millgate had considered asking the police for a restraining order. Now, in his weakened mental state, Pittman had again become fixated on Millgate, apparently enough to kill him as a prelude to Pittman’s suicide. Warned of the danger, Millgate’s aides had taken the precaution of moving the senior statesman from a New York hospital where he was recovering from a heart attack. Pittman had managed to follow Millgate to an estate in Scarsdale, had broken into Millgate’s room, and had disconnected his life-support system, killing him. Fingerprints on the outside door to Millgate’s room as well as on Millgate’s medical equipment proved that Pittman had been inside. A nurse had seen him flee from the old man’s bedside. A check that Pittman had given to a New York City taxi driver who drove him to the estate had made it possible for the police to narrow their investigation to Pittman as their main suspect. Pittman was still at large.

Pittman stared at the television and strained to keep from shaking. His sanity felt threatened. Despite the differences, surely everyone in the tavern must know it was his photograph they’d just been shown. He had to get onto the street before someone called the police.

The police. Pittman walked in alarmed confusion from the bar, keeping his head low, relieved that no one tried to stop him. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I ought to go to the police. Tell them they’re mistaken. I tried to help Millgate, not kill him.

Sure. And what about the man you killed in your apartment? If he’s still there, if his buddies haven’t moved him. Do you expect the police will take your word about what happened? As soon as they get their hands on you, they’ll put you in jail.

Is that so bad? At least I’ll be safe. The men at my apartment won’t be able to get at me.

What makes you sure? Seven years ago, two men broke your jaw while you and they were in custody in Boston. Security might fail again. And this time what happens to you could be lethal.