Desperate Measures

29

“Here’s your knife back.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry I couldn’t help pay for the taxi.”

“Hey, I’m not in jail. That’s payment enough.”

They were in a loft on lower Broadway. The loft, which seemed to have once been a warehouse, had almost no furnishings, and those were grouped closely together in the middle of what felt like a cavern. Although sparse, the furnishings were expensive-an Italian-made leather sofa, a large Oriental rug, a brass coffee table and matching lamp. Otherwise, in the shadows beyond the pale light from the lamp, there were crates stacked upon crates in every direction.

Sean slumped on the sofa and sipped from a Budweiser that he’d taken from a refrigerator next to some of the crates.

“What is this place?” Pittman asked.

“A little hideaway of mine. You still haven’t told me what you want.”

“Help.”

“How?”

“I’ve never been on the run before.”

“You’re telling me you want advice?”

“Last night I slept in a park. It’s been two days since I bathed. I’ve been scrounging food. I can see how criminals on the run get caught. They finally just get worn down.”

“Then I take it you were smart enough not to try to get in touch with your family and friends.”

“My only excuse for a family is my ex-wife, and I wouldn’t ask her for anything,” Pittman said. “As for my friends, well, I have to assume the police will be watching them in case I show up.”

“So you came to me.”

“I kept asking myself who I knew to get help from but who the police wouldn’t know about. Then it occurred to me-all the people I interviewed over the years. Some of them have the kind of expertise I need, and the police would never think I’d go to them.”

Sean nodded in approval of Pittman’s reasoning. “But I don’t know what advice I can give you. There’s a bathroom and a shower in back. You can spend the night here. For sure, I am. Other than that…”

“There has to be something you can tell me.”

“If they catch you, you’ve already got a brilliant defense.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Insanity,” Sean said.

“What?”

“All that business about your being suicidal. I assume that’s another exaggeration.”

Pittman didn’t respond.

“You mean it’s true?” Sean asked in surprise.

Pittman stared at his Coke can.

“Your son died,” Sean said, “and you fell apart.”

“That’s right.”

“My sister died when I was twenty-five. She was a year younger than me. Car accident,” Sean said.

“And?”

“I nearly drank myself to death. God, I loved her.”

“Then you understand,” Pittman said.

“Yes. But it’s a little different now, isn’t it?”

“How do you mean?”

“When you’re tired and hungry and scared.”

“I feel like I’m being selfish. My son was wonderful. And here I’m thinking about myself.”

“I don’t presume to tell you how to grieve. But I will tell you this-you can’t go wrong if you do what your son would have wanted you to do. And right now, he’d have been telling you to look out for your ass.”