Should Have Looked Away (8 page)

FOURTEEN

Eleven o’clock
and Will was alone downstairs. Chrissy had finished whatever she was doing that night and had gone to bed half an hour earlier. Before going to bed she had looked in on Jake. To her relief he was no longer spanking the monkey, but playing a game on one screen and messaging Dan’s son Clyde on another. On his mother’s instructions, he ended both and went to bed, falling asleep within minutes.

Downstairs, Will pondered. After their session in the kitchen earlier, both he and Chrissy went about doing various things as if nothing had happened. Neither of them discussed Will’s interest in the dead man at the mall; both of them knew that this would not be the end of the matter. Had that conversation continued, Will would have explained his theory that whoever broke into their house the day before was looking for the little white card the deceased was clutching, being unaware that it was still in his possession, or rather now in the police’s possession. They failed to find anything that time: who was to say that they might not return?

Will had already checked the backyard earlier that evening, but made one more sweep before shutting, locking and checking the back door and windows. Once he was satisfied, he made himself another coffee and fired up his laptop.

As the cursor flickered in the Google search box, he sat back and thought of where to start. Being convinced this card was the key to what was going on, he started there. But what type of card was it? A bank card, a credit card, or some kind of workplace identification card?

He had heard of a bank called Capital One, so keyed in that organisation’s name. On the website of the McLean, Virginia, bank there were images of the various cards on offer. None was white with a green border. Will sighed: maybe it was too much to expect to get a hit first time. He tried to Google
banks with
one in title
. This drew a blank. The he tried
white cards with green border
. This time he got several stationery printing companies, a British garden centre and details of the Green Card lottery. Another blank.

Maybe he should start with the dead man. After all, it sounded as if the two assailants had followed him into the men’s room; even with the limited view Will had under the stall door, it seemed to him that the guy was running, running about in the room, maybe looking for a means of escape.

But who the hell was he? How could Will find out? He could hardly go to the police.

‘Jerk,’ he said to himself, and called up the titles of the main New York newspapers. He would have to wade through their online editions for Monday. First, he checked the
Wall Street Journal
. Nothing there, although that may not be the right type of newspaper.

Next was the
New York Times
. He hit the
enter
button and as the Home page filled the screen, Will heard a noise from upstairs. Footsteps. He froze and listened. From the sound and pace it was probably Jake. He could hear muffled noises, then the toilet flush. Then footsteps back into the bedroom. He waited a few seconds then checked the screen. He clicked on the
US
tab, and scanned the new screen. Nothing.

Then the
Daily News
. Nothing again. Then Will realised he was looking at the wrong editions. He needed the previous days. He looked to see if there was a link to the paper’s archive. All he could find was a
login
tab. That would mean registering and keying in credit card details, just to save a trip to the library the next day. He would have to do that.

One more try: the
New York Post
.  Will moved the cursor down the Home page. Nothing here, just crap. Then he arrived at the Metro section. A headline, in bold type, jumped off the page.
Shopper found dead in mall bathroom
. ‘Way to go,’ he said quietly and clicked. The story came up and Will read it three times.  This was it. Directly under the headline was a photograph of the Columbus Circle entrance to the mall, then the report itself.

‘So that’s who you are,’ Will said quietly, tapping the thumbnail picture of the victim. His name was Carmine DiMucci, 39, from Paterson, NJ. Will could easily recognise the man from the photograph, clearly taken in happier times, without the bruising and bleeding and swelling he saw on Sunday. There was a quotation from Detective Julianne Roberts, saying that the police believe this was a mugging gone tragically wrong; that the attackers appear to have been disturbed, as the man’s wallet was still in his pants pocket. He had been left in the mall restroom, where a witness had found him, but died shortly afterwards. An autopsy was pending, although it is believed he died from a heart attack brought on by the attack. The police are studying CCTV from the mall, but appealed for any witnesses who might have seen Mr DiMucci or two men leaving the restroom around the time of the attack. Further down was a black and white still from the security camera, showing two figures - probably men, young men, in Will’s opinion - leaving the men’s room. Both were wearing hooded sweatshirts, the hoods up and obscuring their faces. Neither figure was particularly small: if they did break in, Will did not want to think of the consequences if somebody had been at home at the time.

He fingered the image to maximise it, succeeding to an extent, but the picture was too out of focus to be of any use. Nevertheless, Will stared at the figures for a minute. ‘So,’ he said to himself, but directing the question at the two men, ‘are you the sons of bitches who broke in here?’

The article ended with a quotation from the mall’s management sending Di Mucci’s widow and family their sincere condolences and urging any witnesses to come forward.

Will drank some coffee, pulling a face as he realised it was now cold. He poured it away, and made himself another cup. Standing at the kitchen table holding this second cup, he looked down at the article and the two photographs. Where should he go now? The late Carmine DiMucci or the two hooded figures? He sat down and looked again at the monochrome image. The picture was too indistinct to be of any use. But DiMucci…

The article said he came from Paterson. Will thought he had been there before: not too far - only around 20 miles - so it was not unreasonable for him to be in Manhattan. Maybe he worked here and had commuted.

But it was a Sunday, and he was dressed in traditional work clothes.

He tabbed up to DiMucci’s picture. He was smiling. The picture was obviously taken at a happy occasion. It was not a single portrait, but appeared to be the result of cropping. Maybe it had been part of a family picture; after all, the article said he had a wife and children.

Will sat back, rubbing his eyes. He was tired now. He nodded. He knew what he wanted to do next: he could easily take a round trip to Patterson in half a day.

Then Will started in his seat as he heard a loud noise from the backyard.

FIFTEEN

Will leapt out
of his seat. Without even bothering to look out of the window, he strode over to the far corner of the kitchen, to where Chrissy kept her collection of knives. He pulled out one of the larger ones. It was sharp, pointed and the blade was about two inches thick. Grasping the handle, he unlocked and unbolted the door and ran into the darkened back yard.

There was no sign of where the noise had come from. Will stepped backwards back into the house and reached around the doorway for a light switch. He flicked it down and a bright halogen light filled the yard.

Will’s house was situated between two other, similar places. On one side, there was a high brick wall, around ten to twelve feet; on the other a metal chain-link fence around four feet. However, some years back, the neighbour had erected a wooden fence alongside the metal one, also around ten feet. The guy who lived in Will’s house before had owned a large dog and that was the reason for putting up the fence. When the dog owner moved away and Will and Chrissy moved in, it was easier to keep the fence up than have it removed. Will had no problem with that.

To the rear was another wall. Will’s property backed onto the rear of a café and jazz club on Perry Street. The space at the rear of that building was too small to be a parking lot, just enough room for a couple of employee cars, and their trash bins. The wall itself was around six feet high, with a small metal railing attached to the top, making the boundary eight feet.  However, this was a weak spot. Walls and fences ten feet high were difficult if not impossible to get over, but a six feet wall, plus a two feet railing was a different matter. What was more, it would have been easy to climb onto a garbage can to climb over. This had to have been how they got over the other day: even in broad daylight, the rear was quite secluded. Will had always meant to make this wall more secure, maybe add some razor wire or something.

He stood on tiptoe, trying to look over the brick wall. He could see nothing, nor hear anything. The sound he had heard was a crashing noise. He had assumed it was caused by something being knocked over while being used by somebody climbing. Maybe somebody from the café was putting out the trash or moving a beer barrel. Whatever it was, there was no sight or sound now.

He slowly backed away from the wall, losing his footing on his third step. He fell backwards, half landing on the lawn, and half landing on the bicycle Louise had left lying in the yard. Instinctively, he put his arm out to break the fall, but also instinctively he kept grasping the kitchen knife: the result of all this was that he landed awkwardly, snagging his wrist on the bicycle chain. He swore loudly, and staggered to his feet. Holding the knife in the other hand and manipulating his wrist, he went back indoors, locking and bolting the door.

‘Goddamn bike,’ he said aloud as he washed the blood off of his cut wrist. ‘Why can’t they put anything away?’ He replaced the knife in its slot and quietly went upstairs.

His and Chrissy’s bedroom faced the front of the house, looking onto Charles Street; Louise’s was the same. Jake’s room and the bathroom faced to the back. Will slowly opened his son’s room and crept in, expecting Jake to be asleep.

‘Hey man, what’s going on?’ Jake asked from under his quilt. He was in bed, but was playing something on his phone.

‘Sorry,’ Will whispered. ‘I thought you’d be asleep. I just needed to look out of the window. What are you doing anyway? It’s late and you have school tomorrow. Have you done your homework, by the way?’

‘No assignments today, man.’ Jake returned to his phone.

‘Are you sure about that? I don’t want to get another letter at the end of the week from the Principal.’

‘It’s cool. It’s cool.’

Will was not convinced, but 11:25
pm
was not the time to get into a deep discussion about homework assignments. ‘What are you doing, anyway?’

‘Just chatting.’

‘Chatting? To who at this time of night.’

‘Only Clyde.’

Will put his hand out. ‘Show me.’

Jake turned the phone round so Will could not see the screen. ‘Private stuff, dude. Private stuff.’

‘Enough private stuff already, or I’ll confiscate the phone. And all this crap here.’ Will pointed to the desk full of screens and wires and consuls. ‘And it’s
Dad
, not
dude
. Clear? Now: switch the phone off.
Now
.’

Jake muttered something Will could not understand and switched off the phone.

‘Good. Now, off to sleep. Early start tomorrow, you know that.’

Jake grunted and turned on his side, pummelling the pillow into shape. Will stepped over to the window, moved the curtain to one side and peered out. The back yard was still illuminated by the light, and a light was on at the back of the café on Perry. He could see a rear door, which was probably a fire exit. Two figures, a short, older man, and a girl were standing by the door, under the light, talking and smoking. Will cleared his throat softly: he could not imagine those two scaling his wall. He took one more look around and turned away from the window. Jake seemed to be asleep; or at least, was pretending to be asleep.

‘Night,’ Will said quietly. ‘And keep that phone off. Remember where the router is: I can easily disconnect the internet from downstairs. And I know you have no roaming credit left.’ He didn’t but it was an accurate guess.

Jake began to snore.

‘Yeah, right,’ Will muttered and left his son’s room. Back downstairs, he took one more look into the back yard before switching off the light.

Then switching it back on.

‘Shit,’ he griped. He was getting jumpy for no reason. It was just somebody working at the café. Is this what happens to anybody who experiences a break-in? ‘Get a damn grip,’ he said aloud.

His thoughts turned back to his son as he glanced up to the ceiling, the ceiling under which Jake was in bed. Chrissy had a point: neither of them had any idea what he was getting up to, in his room with the door shut. It was always computer related. Will would have been happy if he was just jacking off to some internet porn: didn’t all teenager boys do that? The web was just a digital version of the grubby magazines he used to smuggle indoors. He was thirteen; fourteen in the New Year: Will was almost hoping they would find him in there with a girl one day: at least that would be normal. Well, normal in Will’s eyes. But at the moment, who was he conversing with online? Was it Dan’s boy Clyde or other kids from school as he always made out it was, or was it some sixty year old scumbag sitting in stained boxers in a darkened room somewhere pretending to be a thirteen year old boy. Or a nine year old girl. Will shivered. Maybe he should talk to Dan; see how he and Jia were handling Clyde.

Will yawned. It was getting very late, and they all had early starts in the morning. The laptop had gone to sleep, so he stabbed at a key and the photograph of Carmine DiMucci reappeared. Paterson wasn’t that far. He could take two or three hours off tomorrow; after all, Dan Gleave had done it yesterday.

Will shut down the laptop, double checked all the doors and windows, and went up to bed. He had the feeling the next day was going to be a very long one.