Six Years

Chapter 23

I refused to say a word until my attorney-Benedict-was present.

That took some time. The lead officer identified himself as Jim Mulholland of the New York Police Department. I couldn’t figure out that jurisdiction. Lanford College is in Massachusetts. I had killed Otto along Route 91 still within that state. I had ventured into Vermont and when they picked me up I was in New Jersey. Other than taking public transportation through Manhattan, I could not figure out how the NYPD could possibly be involved in this mess.

Mulholland was a burly man with a thick mustache that brought on visions of Magnum PI. He stressed that I was not under arrest and that I could leave anytime, but boy, they would really, really appreciate my cooperation. He chatted politely, if not inanely, as he drove me to a Midtown precinct. He offered me soda, coffee, sandwiches, whatever I wanted. I was suddenly hungry and accepted. I was about to dig in when I remembered that it was guilty men who ate in custody. I had read that somewhere. The guilty man knows what is going on, so he can sleep and eat. It is the innocent man who is too confused and nervous to do either.

Then again, which was I?

I ate the sandwich and even enjoyed every bite. Every once in a while, Mulholland or his partner, Susan Telesco, a tall blonde with jeans and a turtleneck, would try to engage me in conversation. I would shake them off and remind them that I had invoked my right to counsel. Three hours later, Benedict showed up. The four of us-Mulholland, Telesco, Benedict, and yours truly-sat around a table in an interrogation room that had been done up to not be overly intimidating. Of course it wasn’t as though I had a lot of experience in interrogation rooms, but I always expected them to be somewhat stark. This one was more a soft beige.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Mulholland asked.

Benedict frowned. “Really?”

“What?”

“How did you expect us to answer that exactly? With a confession perhaps? ‘Oh yes, Detective Mulholland, I assume you’ve arrested me because I shot up two liquor stores’? Can we skip amateur hour and just get to the heart of this?”

“Listen,” Mulholland said, adjusting himself in the chair, “we’re on your side.”

“Oh boy.”

“No, I mean it. We just need to clean up some details, and then we all go home better people for what happened.”

“What are you talking about?” Benedict asked.

Mulholland nodded at Telesco. She opened a folder and slid a sheet of paper across the table. When I saw the mug shots-front view, side view-my blood hummed in my veins.

It was Otto.

“Do you know this man?” Telesco asked me.

“Don’t answer.” I wasn’t about to, but Benedict put a hand on my arm just in case. “Who is he?”

“His name is Otto Devereaux.”

The name sent a chill through me. They had shown me their faces. They had used at least Otto’s real name. That could only mean one thing-they never intended for me to leave that van alive.

“Recently, your client stated that he had an altercation with a man matching Otto Devereaux’s description on a highway in Massachusetts. In that statement, your client said that he had been forced to kill Mr. Devereaux in self-defense.”

“My client retracted that statement. He was disoriented and under the influence of alcohol.”

“You don’t understand,” Mulholland said. “We aren’t here to bust his chops. If we could, we’d give him a medal.” He spread his hands. “We are all on the same side here.”

“Oh?”

“Otto Devereaux was a career scumbag of almost biblical proportions. We could show his full oeuvre, but it would take too long. Let’s just lead with some of the highlights. Murder, assault, extortion. His nickname was Home Depot because he liked using tools on his victims. He enforced for the legendary Ache brothers until someone decided that he was too violent for them. Then he worked on his own or for whatever desperate bad guy needed a true sicko.” He smiled at me. “Look, Jake, I don’t know how you got the drop on this guy, but what you did was a blessing for society.”

“So,” Benedict said, “theoretically speaking, you’re here to thank us?”

“Nothing theoretical about it. You’re a hero. We want to shake your hand.”

No one shook hands.

“Tell me,” Benedict said, “where did you find his body?”

“That’s not important.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“That’s not important either.”

Benedict said, smiling broadly, “Is this really the way to treat your hero?” He nodded toward me. “If there is nothing else, I think we will be leaving now.”

Mulholland glanced over at Telesco. I thought that I saw a small smile on her face. I didn’t like it. “Okay,” he said, “if that’s how you want to play it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning nothing. You’re free to go.”

“Sorry we couldn’t help,” Benedict said.

“Don’t worry about it. Like I said, we just wanted to thank the man who took this guy out.”

“Uh-huh.” We were both standing now. “We can find our way out.”

We were nearly out the door when Susan Telesco said, “Oh, Professor Fisher?”

I turned.

“Do you mind if we show you one more photograph?”

They both looked up at me as though they couldn’t be bothered, as though they had all the time in the world and my answer was meaningless. I could look at the picture or I could walk out the door. No biggie. I didn’t move. They didn’t move.

“Professor Fisher?” Telesco said.

She slid the photograph out of the folder facedown, as if we were playing blackjack in a casino. I could see the glint in her eye now. The room dropped ten degrees.

“Show me,” I said.

She flipped over the photograph. I froze.

“Do you know this woman?” she asked.

I didn’t reply. I stared at the photograph. Yes, of course, I knew the woman.

It was Natalie.

“Professor Fisher?”

“I know her.”

The photograph was black-and-white. It looked like a still frame from some kind of surveillance video. Natalie was hurrying down a corridor.

“What can you tell me about her?”

Benedict put a hand on my shoulder. “Why are you asking my client?”

Telesco pinned me down with her eyes. “You were visiting her sister when we found you. Would you mind telling us what you were doing there?”

“And again,” Benedict said, “why are you asking my client?”

“The woman’s name is Natalie Avery. We’ve previously spoken at length to her sister, Julie Pottham. She claims that her sister lives in Denmark.”

I spoke this time. “What do you want with her?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

“Then neither am I,” I said.

Telesco looked at Mulholland. He shrugged. “Okay, then. You’re free to go.”

We all stood there, playing this game of chicken. To mix metaphors, I had no cards here so I was the first to blink. “We used to date,” I said.

They waited for more.

Benedict said, “Jake…,” but I waved him off.

“I’m looking for her.”

“Why?”

I glanced at Benedict. He seemed to be as curious as the cops. “I loved her,” I said. “I never really got over her. So I was hoping… I don’t know. I was hoping for some kind of reconciliation.”

Telesco wrote something down. “Why now?”

That anonymous e-mail came back to me:

You made a promise.

I sat back down and pulled the photograph closer. I swallowed hard. Natalie’s shoulders were hunched. Her beautiful face… I could feel myself well up… she looked terrified. My finger found her face, as if somehow she could feel my touch and would find comfort. I hated this. I hated seeing her so scared.

“Where was this taken?” I asked.

“It’s not important.”

“The hell it isn’t. You’re looking for her, aren’t you? Why?”

They looked at each other again. Telesco nodded. “Let’s just say,” Mulholland began slowly, “that Natalie is a person of interest.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“Not from us.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means?” For the first time, I saw the facade drop and could see a flash of anger on Mulholland’s face. “We’ve been looking for her”-he grabbed the photograph of Otto-“but so were he and his friends. Who would you rather found her first?”

I stared at the photograph, my vision blurring and clearing, when I noticed something else. I tried not to move, tried not to change the expression on my face. In the bottom right-hand corner, there was a time-date stamp. It read: 11:47 P.M., May 24… six years ago.

This picture had been taken a few weeks before Natalie and I met.

“Professor Fisher?”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“But you’re looking?”

“Yes.”

“Why now?”

I shrugged. “I missed her.”

“But why now?”

“It could have been a year ago. It could have been a year later. It was just the time.”

They didn’t believe me. Too bad.

“Have you had any luck?”

“No.”

“We can help her,” Mulholland said.

I said nothing.

“If Otto’s friends find her first…”

“Why are they looking for her? Hell, why are you looking for her?”

They changed subjects. “You were in Vermont. Two police officers identified you and we found your iPhone up there. Why?”

“It is where we dated.”

“She stayed at that farm?”

I was talking too much. “We met in Vermont. She got married in the chapel up there.”

“And how did your phone end up there?”

“He must have dropped it,” Benedict said. “By the way, can we get it back?”

“Sure. That can be arranged, no problem.”

Silence.

I looked at Telesco. “Have you been searching for her for the last six years?”

“In the beginning. But not so much in recent years, no.”

“Why not?” I asked. “I mean, well, the same question you asked me: Why now?”

Again they exchanged a glance. Mulholland said to Telesco, “Tell him.”

Telesco looked at me. “We stopped looking for her because we were sure that she was dead.”

I had somehow expected that answer. “Why did you think that?”

“It doesn’t involve you. You need to help us here.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“If you tell us what you know,” Telesco said, her voice suddenly hard, “we forget all about Otto.”

Benedict: “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means? Your client claims self-defense.”

“So?”

“You asked about the cause of death. Here’s your answer: He snapped a man’s neck. I have news for you. A broken neck is rarely the result of self-defense.”

“First off, we deny that he had anything to do with the death of this felon-”

She put her hand up. “Save it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “You can make all the threats you want. I don’t know anything.”

“Otto didn’t believe that, did he?”

Bob’s voice: “Where is she?”

Mulholland leaned close to me. “Are you dumb enough to think this is the end of it? You think they’ll just forget about you now? They underestimated you the first time. They won’t do that again.”

“Who are ‘they’?” I asked.

“Some seriously bad men,” he said. “That’s all you need to know.”

“That makes no sense,” Benedict said.

“Listen to me closely. They can find Natalie first,” Mulholland said, “or we can. It’s your choice.”

Again I said, “I really don’t know anything.”

Which was true enough. But more than that, Mulholland had left off one last option, much as it might seem like a long shot.

I could find her.