Win

Chapter 12

I get back to the Beresford at one a.m.

Hormuz spots me coming to the door. He hurries to open it. I flash a fake FBI identification and stick it back in my coat pocket. I realize that impersonating an officer is breaking the law, but here is the thing about being rich: You don’t go to jail for crimes like this. The rich hire a bunch of attorneys who will twist reality in a thousand different ways until reality is made irrelevant. They’d claim Hormuz is a liar. They’d say I was obviously joking. They’d deny I ever flashed anything at all, or if we are on tape, they’d say I flashed a photograph of someone I was visiting. We would whisper quietly in the ears of friendly politicians, judges, prosecutors. We would make donations to their campaigns or their pet causes.

It would go away.

If by some miracle it didn’t go away — if by some one-in-a-thousand chance the authorities were called in on this and stood up to the pressure and took it to trial and found a jury to convict me of impersonating an officer — the punishment would never be prison time. Rich guys like me don’t go to prison. We — gasp! — pay fines. Since I have a ton of money already, a hundred times more than I could spend in a lifetime at the very least, why would that deter me?

Am I being too honest?

A similar calculation is made in my business all the time. It is why so many choose to bend the rules, break the rules, cheat. The odds of getting caught? Slim. The odds of being prosecuted? Slimmer. If you do somehow get caught, the odds of simply paying a fine that will be lower than the amount of money you stole? Great. The odds of doing any kind of real prison time? A mathematical formula constantly approaching zero.

I detest that. I don’t stand for cheaters or thieves, especially those who aren’t doing it to feed a starving family.

Yet here I am with my fake ID.

Do I appear the hypocrite?

“Yeah, Hermit was like a vampire,” Hormuz tells me. “Only came out at night, I guess.”

Hormuz has eyes so heavily lidded I don’t get how he sees anything. He has a bowling-ball paunch and one of those dark faces that appear to be five-o’clock-shadowed seconds after a shave.

“You want something to drink?” he asks me. “Coffee?”

Hormuz shows me his mug, which probably began life as something in the white family but is now stained the color of a smoker’s teeth.

“No, I’m good. I understand the mystery tenant used the basement exit.”

“Yep. Which was weird.”

“Why weird?”

“Because he’d come out over there, to the left. Then he’d circle in front of the building anyway. He’d walk right past me.”

“So he took more steps this way?”

“More steps, longer elevator ride, it just didn’t make sense. Except.”

“Except?”

“Except the lobby has a ton of cameras. But from his elevator to the exit in the basement, there was only the one.”

Made sense. “Did he ever talk to you?”

“The guy in the tower?”

“Yes.”

“Not once. He’d go past me like clockwork every Wednesday night. Or, well, it was four a.m. so maybe that was Thursday morning? Still dark out though.” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter, whatever. He’d walk past me. For years this would happen. I would nod and say, ‘Good evening, sir.’ I’m polite like that. He’s one of my tenants. I treat him with respect, no matter how he treats me. Most tenants, well, they’re great. They call me by my first name, tell me to do the same with them. But I don’t. I like to show respect, you know what I’m saying? I’ve been here eighteen years, and I would say I still haven’t met half of the people who live here. They’re in bed by midnight when I come on. But the tower guy? I’d nod to him every time. I would say, ‘Good evening, sir.’ He just kept his head down. Never said anything. Never looked up. Never acknowledged I even existed.”

I say nothing.

“Look, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I know he’s dead and all, so I shouldn’t speak bad about the man. I think he had issues, you know. Glenda, my wife, she watches some show on hoarders and whatnot. It’s a real illness, Glenda tells me. So maybe that was it. It’s not like I’m happy he’s dead or anything.”

“You said every Wednesday night.”

“Huh?”

“You said he walked past you every Wednesday night.”

“Or Thursday morning. It’s weird having a midnight gig. Like tonight. I arrived Wednesday night but what time is it now?”

I check my watch. “Almost one thirty.”

“Right, so it’s not Wednesday night anymore. It’s Thursday morning.”

“Let’s call it Thursday morning,” I say, because this subject is irrelevant and boring me.

“Yeah, okay.”

“You said you saw him walk past you every Thursday morning at four a.m.”

“Yep, that’s right.”

“So it was a routine?”

“Yeah.”

“How long had he been doing this?”

“Oh, years and years.”

“Summer, fall, spring, winter?”

“Yeah, I think so. I mean, look, there were times he missed. I’m sure of it. There were months I wouldn’t see him at all. Like maybe he flew to Florida for the winter, I don’t know. And there were nights, well, the job is quiet. I sit. I may stick in my AirPods and stream something on Netflix, you know what I’m saying? But as soon as someone touches the door, bam, I’m up. We lock it after midnight. So maybe sometimes he walked by and I didn’t see.”

“Did you ever see him leave at other times?”

“No, I don’t think so. Always four a.m. or right around then.”

I think about that. “And what time did he come back?”

“He didn’t stay out long. I think he just took a walk. He was back within an hour. Maybe sometimes more. I don’t think it was consistent. Look, I figure he’s a weirdo, wants to be alone. So he takes night walks. I’ve heard of stranger things, right?”

“When he walked past you heading out,” I continue, “what direction was he going?”

“East.”

I glance down across the street in the direction where he’s pointing. “Into the park?”

“Yep.”

“Every time?”

“Every time. I figured he was taking a walk. Like I said. Strange time, and I know the park is a lot safer now than it used to be, but you wouldn’t see me strolling around in there at four in the morning.”

I think about this. Four a.m. I wonder whether that is a clue.

I think it is.

“When was the last time you saw him going out like that?” I ask.

“Recently. Last week maybe. Or the week before.”

I realize that would have been the day before he was murdered. Ry Strauss goes out for his usual Thursday morning four a.m. walk. On Friday he goes out again, for the first time in forever during the daytime, and comes back with in all likelihood his killer.

I have a plan.

I stand in the shadows across the street from Malachy’s.

The time is four a.m. By law, New York City bars must stop serving alcohol at four a.m. Coincidence? I, for one, hope not.

They say New York is the city that never sleeps. That may be true, but right about now, her eyes are blinking closed and her head is nodding in exhaustion. My lizard brain, that survival instinct, is wary of shutting itself down. It prefers preparedness. Even as I move about my day, the lizard brain seeks out potential (or erroneously perceived) enemies and threats.

I stay hidden and watch Malachy’s door. I have changed into jogging attire and a sweatshirt with a hood. No, it’s not a hoodie. It’s a sweatshirt with a hood. I would never wear a hoodie. I am patient. I wear earphones. I’m listening to a playlist Kabir created for me featuring Meek Mill, Big Sean, and 21 Savage. Somewhere in the past year or two, after initially scoffing at what I could not comprehend, I have to come to love what we call rap or hip-hop. I know that this music, like Malachy’s Pub, was not created for me, but the underlying anger appeals. I also enjoy the humanism in the desperate posturing and bravado; they want to appear tough but their neediness and insecurity shine through so brightly I assume they must know that we are in on the joke.

Right now, as Kathleen and a male bartender lock up for the night, Meek Mill is bemoaning the fact that he can’t trust women because he has issues.

I hear you, my troubled friend.

Kathleen waves goodbye to the bartender. He heads west toward Broadway, probably to the One train. Kathleen crosses Columbus Avenue and continues to walk with purpose east on Seventy-Second Street. She lives, I know from Kabir’s research, on Sixty-Eighth near West End Avenue.

In short, she is not going home.

I follow from across the street. Two minutes later, she walks past the Dakota and crosses into Central Park. At this hour, the park is pretty much abandoned. I see no one else. Trailing her will be more difficult. We all possess lizard brains, don’t we? And in a situation when you are a woman alone in a park and a man in a hooded sweatshirt, however tasteful that hooded sweatshirt may be, is following you, you take notice.

When she heads north on the sidewalk running along what is simply called the Lake, I take a parallel path west of her that goes through the brush. This path is dark and in some ways not the safest at night, but one, I am always armed, and two, if you are any sort of experienced mugger, you wouldn’t set to pounce in an area so remote that you’d have to wait days, weeks, or months for a profitable target to happen by, would you?

I lose sight of Kathleen for seconds at a time, but so far, this appears to be working. She is making her way north toward the entrance to the wildlife thicket known as the Ramble on the north shore of the Lake. The Ramble is a nearly forty-acre protected natural reserve with winding paths and old bridges and a tremendous variety of topography and fauna and the like. There is bird-watching, yes, but in a less enlightened day, the Ramble was best known for hosting homosexual encounters. It was a spot where gay men would “cruise,” as we used to say. It was supposedly the safest place to avoid being assaulted by those who meant them harm, which is to say, of course, it hadn’t been very safe at all.

Kathleen stops on the bridge that crosses over the Lake and into the heart of the Ramble. The moon glistens off the water, and I can see her silhouette. A minute passes. She doesn’t move. There is no reason to pretend anymore.

I come down the path. Kathleen hears my approach and turns expectantly.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say when she sees me.

Kathleen jolts back a little. “Wait, I know you.”

I don’t reply.

“What the hell, are you following me?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“Ry Strauss won’t be coming tonight.”

“Huh? Who?” But I can see the fear in her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I move closer, so she can see my disappointed frown. “You can do better than that.”

“What do you want?”

“I need your help.”

“With what?”

“Ry was murdered.”

I just say it like that, too matter-of-factly. Breaking bad news is not my forte.

“He was...?”

“Murdered, yes.”

Tears push into her eyes. Kathleen makes a fist and places the back of it against her mouth to stifle a cry. I wait, give her a moment or two. She puts the fist down and blinks into the moonlight.

“Did you kill him?” she asks me.

“No.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“If that were my plan, you’d be dead by now.”

That doesn’t seem to comfort her much.

“What do you want with me?”

“I need your help,” I repeat.

“With what?”

“With trying to catch his killer.”