Red Cat

Epilogue

In March, Clare found a place to live. It wasn’t in Manhattan, and it wasn’t in Brooklyn. It was a Craftsman bungalow on Rose Street, in North Berkeley. She sat cross-legged on the sofa when she told me, and she put her hand on my cheek.

“If I stayed in New York, I’d end up staying with you,” she said.

“And that would be a bad thing?”

She shook her head. “Not a bad thing, honey, but an easy one. It’s comfortable, and companionable, and we have a lot of fun- and, Christ, you give me all the space in the known universe. Hanging out with you is the simplest thing in the world. It’s like being back in college, the path of least resistance. But I’ve gone down that path already, and it’s not what I’m looking for anymore.”

“What are you looking for? And how do you know-”

“I want kids, John,” she said, and there was humming silence afterward. She let it hum for a while, and then she smiled. “I’m thirty-five years old, and I want to have a baby. And I want it to be with someone who wants to raise children, who’s ready for that.” I started to speak and she put a hand to my mouth. “That’s not you, John- not now.”

I held her hands and sat there until the room was dark around us, but I couldn’t tell her otherwise.

I saw Leo McCue again in April, two weeks after Clare moved, and two days after Gene Werner’s body was found under the Williamsburg Bridge. McCue was fatter than ever, and his mustache was badly overgrown. He pushed a paper coffee cup across the interrogation table to me.

“Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?” he said. “Him under the bridge, not a hundred yards from where we found her. I remembered what a hard-on you had for this guy at the end, so naturally I wondered if you’d aced him.”

“Naturally. What happened to him?”

McCue drank some coffee and grimaced. “Somebody beat the crap out of him, and capped it off by snapping his neck. Let me see your hands.” I held them out and McCue inspected them. “Soft as a baby’s ass,” he said.

“And no cuts or bruises. Sorry to disappoint.”

McCue shrugged. “A shot in the dark,” he said. “And I’m guessing you can account for your time.”

I sighed. “Only if you tell me what time I’m supposed to account for.” He told me, and took it well when he heard I’d been in a roomful of bankers on the evening in question.

“Like I said, a shot in the dark. You come across anybody in your travels who’d want to punch his ticket?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“But if you think of somebody, I’m your first call, right?”

“Sure,” I said, and I headed for the door. I was halfway out when McCue spoke again.

“How’s that brother of yours doing, by the way?” he asked. “His wife give him back his balls yet?”

“Fuck you,” I said, and left. His laughter followed me down the hall.

The next day I drove up to Tarrytown. The Van Winkle Court condominiums were still there, and so was Uncle Kenny, but Jamie Coyle was long gone.