A Killing Gift

Twenty-eight

Jack Devereaux was an angry man. The press and the cops had made him a prisoner in his own home. He was stuck on the sofa with his sweetheart plying him with food he didn't want to eat, antsy as hell. He wanted to go out to eat. He wanted to walk, and he wanted out of where he was. His bruises were healing, and his broken arm itched. He was beginning to think of fleeing but felt he was too famous to move. It was not a good situation.

His father had left him a town house on Sutton Place, and another house in California. Both had heavy security, but he resisted moving into a world from which he'd been excluded for so long. To be sure the Manhattan house was amazing. The classic four-story brick building on Fifty-seventh Street had been gutted and redesigned for a contemporary sensibility. The rooms flowed one into another and even from one floor to another. Staircases seemed to be suspended on air.

He and Lisa had visited there exactly once. Lisa had been intrigued by the huge kitchen, the mirrored ceiling in the master bedroom, the terrace on the East River, and also by the obscenely large master bathroom. The bathroom took up half a floor and was tiled in three different colors of marble. The shower had no walls. The Jacuzzi was a custom design; its faucets looked like real gold. The attention to detail in the house was so opposite to the lack of attention paid to him that Jack reacted to the tour by vomiting in his late father's powder room toilet. He hadn't gone back. But now the idea of having resources was beginning to jell. He wanted some of that money so he could hide.

But it wasn't so easy. He couldn't exactly get a billion-dollar check and suddenly become the head of a giant corporation. It didn't work like that. There were little things like procedures, probate. Everything took time. He knew that from when his mom had died. In a huge estate like this, the feeding frenzy among the lawyers would drag it all out. Probate hadn't been filed yet, but Jack had been informed that he could take his trusteeship in the company foundation immediately. He could also request a deposit or something, a few mil to tide him over until the estate was settled. Since his visit to the hospital, he was getting calls from his new "friends," the lawyers at the firm of Gibson, Frank, and Field urging him to get out of town, and he wanted to go. But he was resistant to leaving the only life he'd ever known. He didn't want to lose himself.

On Monday after the murdered cop's funeral, he was wavering. On Tuesday when he got an early-morning call from Al Frayme, he still hadn't moved. Lisa wasn't quitting her job anytime soon. She was back at work, and he was alone again, bummed out, glad to get a friendly call.

"What's up, Al?"

"How are you holding up? We're worried about you," Al said. "Anything we can do?"

"Thanks, but as I told you Friday, there's nothing to worry about. I'm fine."

"Good. Then business. You're not going to let me down next week, are you?"

"About what? You know I can't do gifts yet."

"No, no, nothing like that. You're speaking at the reunion, remember? You're going to be okay for that, aren't you?"

"Oh, yeah. With all this I forgot about it. Gee, I'm not sure. I might have a conflict out of town next week." Speaking on any subject was the last thing in the world he wanted to do now. No way.

"Oh, God, don't welsh on me. I'm counting on you."

"Look, Al, what can I say? I got hurt last week. I just don't know if I'm up for it."

"But it's so fucking impressive. Everyone is dying to hear about it. What a New York story. Saving a cop, fighting off a killer… it's amazing."

"Oh, I really did a job on him," Jack said bitterly.

"Oh, come on, don't be so modest. I heard you hurt him bad."

"It's all a crock. I didn't get anywhere near him."

"Not what my sources say. We're going to write you up in the magazine. Billionaire alum, New York hero. What kind of Good Samaritan story is that?"

"It's great, but I'm not interested."

"Oh, come on, it would be so good for both of us."

"Al, I'm spooked, okay? I'm not interested in being described as a hero when there's a killer out there."

"I'm sure he doesn't read the alumni magazine."

"Very funny."

"Come on, lighten up. People like you are exactly what the university desperately needs. Don't let us down."

"Not right now, okay, Al?"

"What can I do to change your mind? How about a limo for the event?"

"I'm only a few blocks away. I could walk. That's not the issue." Jack was trying hard to be nice.

"Then what's the issue?"

"I told you I'm nervous. Call me a wimp, whatever.

I don't want to do the event. It's not safe." Jack gazed out at the reporters downstairs. He had a lot of trouble going out.

"The university could protect you, I promise."

"Don't make promises. That's not the issue."

"What's the issue, Jack? You're one of us. I want you to know we're here for you. It matters to us that you're happy, feeling secure. The president, everybody. We want you happy. We can keep you safe."

"Well, tell everybody I'm happy, but I have another call coming in." Jack cut him off. He didn't want to hear any more people telling him how important he suddenly had become. He wasn't doing the reunion, period.

His call waiting kicked in.

"Hi, it's April Woo."

"Oh, hello." That was all he could manage even for her.

"Listen, can you come in today? I need you to look at somebody."

"Who?" Then he got excited. Maybe it was over.

"A guy." The pretty cop was noncommittal.

"Look, I'm under siege here. Is this for real?"

"What's going on?"

"The reporters won't go away. Don't these guys have anything else to do?"

"Everybody's trying to flush you out of your little pond into the big sea where you belong. You're the only guy in the world who prefers a walk-up to the Ritz. And you're a hero. It's all news. Do you want me to send a car for you?"

He wasn't a hero, but everybody wanted to send a car for him. Why wasn't he impressed?

"Well, it would be nice to get there without a confrontation in front of the building," he murmured. On the other hand, it wouldn't be so nice to see a clip of himself getting into a squad car on the evening news.

The detective read his mind. "How about an unmarked car?" she said.

"That would be great. Do you have the man who attacked you? If you had him, it would be a huge relief."

"Yeah, for all of us. The whole city. A car will be there in ten minutes, maybe eleven if the traffic is bad. Officer Maureen Perry will be your driver."

Seven minutes later a black Buick pulled up in front of his door building. The driver was a blond woman in uniform. The uniform blew his cover.

"Good morning, sir," she said, a little surprised when he charged out of the building, dove into the front seat next to her, and slammed the door. After that she didn't say a word, only nodded when he got out and thanked her for the ride.

As he headed into the Sixth Precinct his arm itched badly in its cast, and he had the feeling of rage that had been flashing on and off in him like painful power surges ever since his father died and stole his identity. Now absent fathers and murderers were all mixed up in his mind. Maybe the absent father was the murderer. All he wanted was to be normal again-to watch the Yankees battle the Mets, to make love to Lisa, to build his little business his own way. Normal.

Instead he couldn't get out of being an item on the news. His photo, inset next to a larger one of his father, had been on the cover of Time magazine two weeks ago. He was followed around by reporters. Yesterday the cop's funeral had dredged it up again. And now he was in the center of a murder investigation. Every talk-show host wanted him on TV talking about it. He didn't see how rich was good. It got him into this, but it couldn't get him out.

Inside the precinct, the desk lieutenant gave him a quick glance and knew right away who he was. "Mr. Devereaux?"

"Yes."

"They're waiting for you upstairs. First door."

Jack found the stairs and took them two at a time. There was nothing wrong with his legs, and he was in a hurry to see who was in custody. At the top of the stairs the door to the detective unit was open and people were spilling out. With them came a cloud of cigarette smoke. So much for the law against smoking in government buildings.

"I'm looking for Sergeant Woo," he told a skinny man with a pencil mustache and a gun at his waist who was sitting on the first desk with his cell phone pressed against his ear.

"You can wait in here." The man got up and led him through a maze of detectives and desks to a room with a window. The blind on the window was up, and April Woo was in the room beyond. He could hear her talking with a man who was definitely not the person who'd attacked him. He was too big, too fat, and too old. Jack sat down, disheartened. He'd hoped it would be over.

After a few minutes Mike Sanchez came into the room and shut the door behind him. "Thanks for coming in," he said. "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay. It's not him."

"Are you sure he doesn't look familiar to you at all?"

Jack's memory of Wednesday night had jelled solid. It didn't vary with the time of day, and he didn't have to study the man sitting at the table in the other room to know he wasn't the one. The man he'd seen gripping April in the fog had been catlike, a dancer. The man in the room with her now had a soft belly that doubled over his belt. He was a bear with big flat feet and fingers like sausages. A bear crushes with his weight. Jack touched the cast on his arm. The man who'd attacked him had not been a bear. Not a polar bear nor a grizzly bear. He'd been snake thin, snake quick, and snake agile. Too fast to grab hold of. He shook his head.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm dead sure. Who is he?"

"Someone who borrowed a lot of money from the deceased."

Jack shifted his attention to Sanchez. "Why do you call him the deceased?" he asked.

"Sorry. No disrespect intended."

At that moment, a large woman in a red jacket went into the interview room and whispered in April Woo's ear. She got up and left. A few minutes later she joined them and nodded at Jack.

"Thanks for coming. The traffic wasn't bad?"

Small talk. "No, not bad. Thanks for the ride," Jack told her, smiling a little because she was so pretty, and pretty in a cop still surprised him. Call it male chauvinism. Sanchez was what he would expect. Sergeant Woo was something else. She acknowledged his smile with a little one of her own. She knew.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm doing okay."

"Good. How about our pal in there?" The smile disappeared, and the sergeant's face went blank. It was kind of eerie the way she wiped it clean.

Jack glanced at Mike, then shook his head. "You know it wasn't him," he said, studying her flat expression.

She shrugged and repeated her question. "How are you doing?"

"You already asked me that. What's going on?" Jack frowned.

"Well, the case is coming together." The detective sat down and took out a notebook and a pen.

Something about the way they were acting made him nervous. Sanchez sat down and took out a similar black-and-white speckled notebook. Now they were all sitting at the table. The notebooks were out. Jack had no idea what was happening, whether it was good or bad. His viable hand began to tremble. He wasn't doing well.

Woo turned some pages, checking her notes, then looked up. "Last Friday when I visited you, you told me someone was calling you, someone whose voice and phone number you didn't know. Have you had any more of those calls?"

He exhaled and realized that he had been holding his breath. "No. No. That situation seems to have resolved itself. Why do you ask?"

"Something odd came up this morning. I want to run this by you." That flat look was so unsettling.

"What?"

"There was a match between a number on the victim's caller ID list and yours."

Jack's heart jumped like a fish on a chopping block. Now Bernardino was the victim. "What does that mean?" he said softly.

"It means there might be a link between you and the killer."

"What do you mean, might be a link?" The air in the room was so heavy Jack felt as though he were breathing through a thick wad of cotton. How could he know a killer?

"It could be a coincidence, but we always work on the premise that there are no coincidences in police work." She said this with no expression.

"Whose number is it?" he asked in a small voice.

"It's a number in the York U phone system. Do you know anyone at York?"

Jack inhaled, taking a moment to digest the question. "Well, sure. I'm an alum. I know lots of people there. Al Frayme, in the development office, Wendy Vivendi, the vice president. I know the president, too, Dr. Warmsley. Marty Baldwin. Some of my professors are friends now. Professor Callum is on the board of my company," he said slowly. "All kinds of people have my number. It's in the donor data bank. I get calls all the time. Whose number is it?"

"The number comes from the School of Social Work."

"The School of Social Work?" Jack placed it near Washington Square. He passed by the building every night on his walk with Sheba. But not since the incident. Now, because of the reporters, they had a dog walker taking Sheba out. He shivered at the way the two cops were looking at him.

"Do you know anybody in the social work school?" Woo's pen was poised for the answer.

"No, not a soul. Whose phone is it?"

"Dr. Foster."

Jack shook his head. "I've never heard of him."

"It's a woman. She's a professor, and she's been out of the country for several weeks. Ring a bell?"

Jack shivered again. "No."

Woo glanced at Sanchez. "We'll need a list of everyone you've been in contact with at the university, everyone you know. That okay with you?" he said.

Jack nodded. "Of course, but I have a question-is it all right to ask? What was the connection to the… deceased?" His tongue faltered over the word. He hadn't been on the block where Bernardino had died. He didn't know him. How could there be a connection between him and a murder victim? Lisa would be terrified. Sheba wouldn't like it, either. His arm started to throb for the first time since the weekend. And April Woo was busy taking notes. She didn't answer the question.

"The connection is just the fact that I was there when it happened, right?" Jack said, figuring that the murderer got in touch after he saw him on the news.

People who appeared on the news were at risk; he'd known that from the get-go.

"No, the number on your phone predates the murder," she said. Matter-of-fact.

His eyes widened as he tried to absorb the possibility that a murderer knew him and maybe he knew a murderer. The detectives let it sink in, and he wondered how long they'd known. It was an eerie sensation, more than eerie. As he flushed under the unfamiliar feeling of real fear, his eye strayed to the man behind the viewing window. The man who looked like a bear was getting restless. He was tapping his huge feet, eager to get out of there. Jack wanted to flee, too. He glanced back at Woo and Sanchez. Their faces didn't tell him a thing.