The Book of Secrets

XI

New York City

Bret had never been so popular as he was in death. Nick stood in the corridor, a blanket around his shoulders, and watched an army of police officers and technicians go in and out of the apartment like ants picking over Bret’s carcass. How could it take so many people to figure it out when he’d seen Bret die himself? They wouldn’t even let him in, but kept him in the corridor with only a cup of coffee and the blanket. A token strip of black and yellow tape barred the door.

He was exhausted – he just wanted to collapse. He’d already told his story twice to two different officers. They hadn’t looked as sympathetic as he’d expected. They’d told him a detective would want to talk to him soon – but that had been half an hour ago.

Two men appeared in the doorway, one in uniform, the other in a grey suit that looked more expensive than anything Nick owned. The uniform pointed at him and muttered something that Nick couldn’t hear. The suit nodded, ducked under the tape and walked over.

‘Mr Ash? I’m Detective Royce.’

Detective Royce was lean and far too tanned for January; he looked like he ran marathons. He had close-cropped hair that was probably going grey, and pointed sideburns that crossed his cheeks like spurs.

‘I hear you’ve got quite a story to tell.’

Nick leaned back against the wall and pulled the blanket closer around him. He felt faint.

‘Is there any way of getting another cup of coffee?’

‘It won’t take long at this stage. If you could just tell me in your own words…’

Who else’s words would they be? ‘Bret-’

‘You mean the deceased? Mr Deangelo?’

‘He rang me on my cellphone.’

‘Approximately what time was that?’

‘About five, I guess. I can check my phone.’

‘We’ll check out the phone company records anyhow. You weren’t in the apartment at this time?’

Was Royce even listening? ‘I told you, he rang me on my cellphone. I was out.’

‘Do you remember where you were?’

Nick thought back a couple of hours. It seemed forever ago. ‘A coffee shop by Fifteen and Tenth. I had my phone switched off. When I-’

He stopped. Royce had turned to look down the corridor, where a man in a white boiler suit, white hood and facemask was walking towards him. He looked as if he’d just walked out of a nuclear reactor. In his gloved hand he carried the killer’s pistol wrapped in a clear plastic bag.

‘We found this on the roof. We’ll get it checked for prints and ballistics.’

Nick started. ‘Wait a minute. It’ll have my fingerprints on it.’

Royce looked at him with more interest.

‘I picked it up where it was hidden, behind the air conditioner. I told you.’

The technician jerked his head at the detective. ‘Put it in the statement.’

He wandered off into Nick’s apartment. Royce turned back to him with an out-of-my-hands grimace.

‘I’m sorry. I know you think this probably isn’t the best time for all this. Believe me, it never is. You’ve heard the line that ninety per cent of murders are solved in twenty-four hours or never?’

Nick nodded wearily. ‘I guess.’

‘It’s bullshit. But the more we get now, the quicker we can make it later.’ There was a high-caffeine energy about Royce, restless and impatient. ‘I’ll get the rest of your story tomorrow at the precinct. For now, I just need to know: to your knowledge, was Mr Deangelo involved in anything of an illegitimate or criminal nature?’

Nick hesitated. What could he say about Bret that wouldn’t condemn him? Sleazy, disreputable, maybe even offensive – but not criminal.

Royce saw his uncertainty and drew his own conclusions. ‘We need to know, Nick.’ He was standing too close, staring down at Nick, his voice too loud for the cramped corridor. ‘This wasn’t an angry girlfriend or some crackhead thief who screwed up. The guy who did this had a motive. Was Bret into drugs?’

Nick squirmed, but at the rate they were dismantling the apartment they’d find out soon enough. ‘He smoked some pot. A lot of people do.’ He meant it to sound casual, no big deal, but it came out defensive.

‘Do you?’

‘No.’ Nick pulled the blanket tighter across his shoulders. ‘Not really.’ How convincing did that sound? ‘I don’t think this was about Bret. I think it was me they wanted.’

‘They?’ Royce pulled out a slim notebook and flipped through it. ‘The sergeant said you told him there was only one perpetrator in the room.’

‘There was.’ Nick felt overwhelmed with tiredness. His head ached and his eyes felt vacant. ‘I meant they…’ He flapped his hands vaguely. ‘You know… Whoever.’

‘Right.’

‘Listen.’ Nick grabbed Royce’s sleeve. The blanket slid off his shoulder and fell to the floor in a heap. ‘Last night I had a message – online – from my ex-girlfriend. She sounded desperate, like someone was after her. When I turned on the webcam all I heard was a scream and then a guy shut it off.’ He saw Royce’s look and realised how crazy he sounded.

Royce pulled his arm away and smoothed out the crease Nick had made. ‘We’ll look into it. Does she have a name, your girlfriend?’

‘Ex. Gillian Lockhart. She works in Paris now for Stevens Mathison. The auction house.’

Royce put his notebook away without writing anything. ‘We’ll get a full statement from you tomorrow. Right now, I think you should get some rest.’

Nick stepped back as two more men in boiler suits came out of his apartment carrying a large silver box wrapped in plastic sheeting. It took him a second to realise what was inside.

‘That’s my computer.’

‘Evidence,’ said one of the technicians. The facemask deadened his voice. He thrust a clipboard into Nick’s hands. ‘Sign here.’

‘Bret never touched that machine.’ I’d have killed him if he did, Nick almost added – but didn’t. ‘He was using his own computer when he… when it happened.’

‘We’ve got that too,’ said Royce. ‘But if the killer was after you – like you said – then maybe it’s got something to do with something. And it was in the same room as Bret when he died. If the camera was turned on or something…’ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the other officers beckoning him from inside the apartment. ‘We’ll see what we find.’

He nodded to the man by the door, then turned back to Nick and fixed him with a pitiless stare.

‘We’re going to get the guy who did it. I promise you that.’

Nick had never realised how much bureaucracy attended the taking of human life. It was midnight before they let him go. He spoke to a police artist, who took a description of the gunman. He saw the lab technician, who brushed his hands for gunpowder residue and stuck a cotton swab in his mouth to get a DNA sample. ‘Just so we don’t waste our time,’ he reassured Nick. He got signed off by an earnest woman from Victim Support who gave him her card and told him to call any time. By the time it was over he was beyond exhaustion. It was all he could do to drag himself the few blocks to find a bed. There were friends he might have stayed with, but even the thought of the explanations he’d need to give made him feel ill. He checked into a hotel by Washington Square and collapsed into bed.

The moment his head touched the pillow the tears started flowing.