Fade Away (1996) (35 page)

'I'm not sure,' he replied. 'Her story sort of makes sense. She had no motive to kill the woman, except to frame Greg and that's reaching.'

Audrey tilted her head as if to say, maybe yes - maybe no.

'What?' he asked.

'Well,' she began, 'isn't there a chance that we're looking at this from the wrong perspective?'

'What do you mean?'

'We assume that this blackmailer had dirt on Downing,' Audrey said.

'But maybe she had dirt on Emily.'

Myron stopped, looked back at the house as though it held some answers, looked back at Audrey.

'According to Emily,' Audrey went on, 'the blackmailer approached her.

But why? She and Greg aren't together anymore.'

'Carla didn't know that,' Myron replied. 'She figured Emily was his wife and would want to protect him.'

'That's one possibility,' Audrey agreed. 'But I'm not sure it's the best one.'

'Are you saying that they were blackmailing her, not Greg?'

Audrey turned her palms skyward. 'All I'm saying is that it could work the other way too. The blackmailer might have had something on Emily something Greg would want to use against her in the child custody case.'

Myron folded his arms and leaned against the car. 'But what about Clip?' he asked. If they had something on Emily, why would he be interested?'

I don't know.' Audrey shrugged. 'Maybe she had dirt on both of them.'

'Both of them?'

'Sure. Something that could destroy them both. Or maybe Clip thought whatever it was -- even if it was about Emily - would distract Greg.'

'Any guesses?'

'Not a one,' Audrey said.

Myron mulled it over for a few seconds, but nothing came to him.

'There's a chance,' he said, 'we'll find out tonight.'

'How?'

'The blackmailer called. He wants to sell me the information.'

'Tonight?'

'Yep.'

'Where?'

I don't know yet. He's going to call. I got my home line forwarded to the cellular.'

As if on cue, the cellular rang. Myron took it out of his pocket.

It was Win. 'The dear professor's schedule was posted on his office door,' he said. 'He is in class for another hour. After that, he has open office hours so the kiddies can whine about grades.'

'Where are you?'

'On Columbia's campus,' Win replied. 'By the way, Columbia women are fairly attractive. I mean, for the Ivy Leagues and all.'

'Glad you haven't lost your powers of observation.'

'Indeed,' Win said. 'Have you finished speaking to our girl?'

Our girl was Emily. Win did not trust cellular phones with names. 'Yes,' he said.

'Goodie. What time should I expect you then?'

I'm on my way.'

Win was sitting on a bench near the Columbia gate on 116th Street. He was wearing Eddie Bauer khakis, Top-Siders without socks, a blue button-down Oxford, and a power tie.

'I'm blending in,' Win explained.

'Like a Hasid at Christmas mass,' Myron agreed. 'Is Bowman still in class?'

Win nodded. 'He should be exiting that door in ten minutes.'

'Do you know what he looks like?'

Win handed him a faculty handbook. 'Page two ten,' he said. 'So tell me about Emily.'

Myron did. A tall brunette dressed in a black, skintight cat suit strolled by with her books pressed up against her chest. Julie Newmar on Batman. Win and Myron watched her closely. Meow.

When Myron finished, Win didn't bother with any questions. 'I have a meeting at the office,' he said as he stood. 'Do you mind?'

Myron shook his head and sat down. Win left. Myron kept his eye on the door. Ten minutes later students began to file out the door. Two minutes after that, Professor Sidney Bowman followed suit. He had the same unkempt, academic beard as in the photo. He was bald but kept his fringe hair ridiculously long. He wore jeans, Timberland boots, and a red flannel shirt. He was either trying to look like a working stiff or Jerry Brown on the campaign trail.

Bowman pushed up his spectacles and kept walking. Myron waited until he was out of sight before following. No rush. The good professor was indeed heading for his office. He crossed the grassy commons and disappeared into yet another brick building. Myron found a bench and sat down.

An hour passed. Myron watched the students and felt very old. He should have brought a newspaper. Sitting for an hour without reading material meant he had to think. His mind kept conjuring up new possibilities and then dismissing them. He knew he was missing something, could see it bobbing in the distance, but every time he reached out it ducked back down below the surface.

He suddenly remembered that he had not checked Greg's answering machine today. He took out his cellular phone and dialed the number.

When Greg's voice came on, he pressed 317, the code numbers Greg had programmed into the machine. There was only one message on the tape, but it was a doozy.

'Don't fuck with us,' the electronically altered voice said. 'I've spoken to Bolitar. He's willing to pay. Is that what you want?'

End of message.

Myron sat very still. He stared at a brick, ivyless wall. He listened to a tone for a few seconds and did nothing. What the hell . . .?

'. . . He's willing to pay. Is that what you want?

Myron pressed the star button to have the message replayed. Then he did it again. He probably would have listened for a fourth time, had Professor Bowman not suddenly appeared at the door.

Bowman stopped to chat with a couple of students. The conversation grew animated, all three displaying fervent, academic earnest. College.

Continuing their undoubtedly weighty discourse, they walked off campus and down Amsterdam Avenue. Myron pocketed the phone and kept his distance. At 112th Street, the group separated. The two students continued south. Bowman crossed the street and headed toward the Cathedral of St John the Divine.

St John the Divine's was a massive structure and interestingly enough, the largest cathedral in the world in terms of cubic square feet (St Peter's in Rome is considered a basilica by this statistic, not a cathedral). The edifice was like the city that housed it: awe-inspiring yet worn. Towering columns and gorgeous stained-glass windows were surrounded by signs like hard hat area (though it dated back to 1892, St John the Divine's has never been completed) and the cathedral is patrolled and electronically monitored for your protection. Wooden planks plugged holes in the granite facade. On the left side of this architectural wonder were two prefab aluminum storage barracks that brought back memories of the opening credits of Gomer Pyle. On the right was the Children's Sculpture Garden featuring the Peace Fountain, an enormous sculpture that inspired several moods, none of them peaceful. Images of severed heads and limbs, lobster claws, hands reaching out from the dirt as though trying to escape hell, a man twisting the neck of a deer all whirled together to create an atmosphere that was more Dante meets Goya than languid tranquillity.

Bowman headed down the driveway on the cathedral's right. Myron knew that there was a homeless shelter down that way. He crossed the street and tried to keep his distance. Bowman passed a group of apparently homeless men - all dressed in threadbare synthetics and pants with plunging butt-lines. Some waved and called out to Bowman. Bowman waved back. Then he disappeared through a door. Myron debated what to do. There was no choice really. Even if it meant blowing his cover, he had to go in.

He passed the men, nodded, smiled. They nodded and smiled back. The shelter entrance was a double black door with chintzy lace curtains. Not far from it were two signs - one reading slow children at play and the other cathedral school. A homeless shelter and a children's school side by side - an interesting yet working combo. Only in New York.

Myron entered. The room was packed with frayed mattresses and men. A smell like a used bong after an all-nighter singed his nostril hairs. Myron tried not to make a face. He spotted Bowman talking to several men in one corner. None of them was Cole Whiteman aka Norman Lowenstein. Myron glanced about the unshaven faces and hollow eyes, his gaze swinging left to right.

They spotted each other at exactly the same time.

From across the room, their eyes locked for perhaps a second, but that was long enough. Cole Whiteman turned and ran. Myron followed, threading his way through the throngs. Professor Bowman spotted the disturbance. Eyes afire, he jumped in Myron's path. Myron lowered his shoulder and flattened him without breaking stride. Just like Jim Brown.

Except Jim Brown had to do it against guys like Dick Butkus and Ray Nitzchke opposed to a fifty-year-old college professor who probably didn't weigh 180 even with the soft gut. Still.

Cole Whiteman disappeared out a back door, slamming it behind him.

Myron went through it not long after. They were outside now, but only briefly. Whiteman disappeared up a metal stairway and back into the main chapel. Myron followed. The inside was very much like the outside spectacular examples of art and architecture mixed in with the tattered and tacky. The pews, for example, were cheap folding chairs. Lush tapestries hung upon granite walls with seemingly no organization. Ladders were melded into thick columns.

Myron spotted Cole heading back out a nearby door. He sprinted after him, his heels echoing up through the giant arched ceiling. They were back outside. Cole headed down below the cathedral and through heavy fire doors. A sign read act program. It looked like a basement school or daycare center. Both men raced down a hallway lined with beat-up, metallic lockers. Cole turned right and disappeared behind a wooden door.

When Myron pushed the door open, a darkened stairway greeted him.

He heard footsteps below him. He trotted down, the light from above dwindling with each step. He was descending deep into the cathedral's subdwelling now. The walls were cement and clammy to the touch. He wondered if he was entering a crypt or tomb or something equally creepy, if indeed there was equally creepy. Did American cathedrals have crypts, or was that only in Europe?

By the time he reached the bottom step, Myron was bathed in darkness, the light from above little more than distant glint. Great. He stepped into a black hole of a room. He cocked his head, listening for a sound like a dog on a hunt. Nothing. He felt for a light switch. Again nothing. The room had a bone-chilling, windless cold. A damp smell permeated his surroundings. He didn't like it down here. He didn't like it at all.

He inched forward blindly, his arms outstretched like Frankenstein's monster. 'Cole,' he called out. 'I just want to talk to you.'

His words echoed hard before fading out like a song on the radio.

He kept going. The room was still as ... well, as a tomb. He had moved about five feet when his outstretched fingers hit something. Myron kept his hand on the smooth, cold surface. Like marble, he thought. He traced down. It was a statue of some sort. He felt the arm, the shoulder, to the back, down a marble wing. He wondered if it was some kind of tombstone decoration and quickly withdrew his hand.

He stayed perfectly still and tried to listen again. The only sound was a rushing in his ears, like seashells were pressed against them. He debated going back upstairs, but there was no way he could do that. Cole knew now that his identity was in danger. He would go into hiding again and not resurface. This was Myron's only chance.

He took another step, leading now with his foot. His toe hit something hard and unyielding. Marble again, he figured. He circled around it. Then a sound -- a scurrying sound -- made him freeze in his tracks. It had come from the ground. Not a mouse. Too big for a mouse. He cocked his head again and waited. His pulse raced. His eyes were just beginning to adjust to the darkness, and he could make out a few shadowy, tall figures. Statues.

Lowered heads. He imagined the serene expressions of religious art on their faces, looking down at him with the knowledge they were embarking on a journey to a better place than the one in which they dwelled.

He took another step, and cold fingers of flesh grabbed his ankle.

Myron screamed.

The hand pulled and Myron fell hard against the cement. He kicked his leg loose and scrambled backward. His back slammed into more marble. A man giggled madly. Myron felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up.

Another man giggled. Then another. Like a group of hyenas were encircling him.

Myron tried to get to his feet, but midway up, the men suddenly pounced. He didn't know how many. Hands dragged him back to the floor. He threw a blind fist and connected square into a face. Myron heard a crunching sound and a man fell. But others reached their target. He found himself sprawled on the wet cement, fighting blindly and frantically. He heard grunts. The stench of body odor and alcohol was suffocating, inescapable. The hands were everywhere now. One ripped off his watch.

One grabbed his wallet. Myron threw another punch. It hit ribs. Another grunt and another man fell.

Somebody turned on a flashlight and shone it into his eyes. It looked like a train heading toward him.

'Okay,' a voice said, 'back off him.'

The hands slid off like wet snakes. Myron tried to sit up.