A few cops and detectives smirked at John as he passed by, but no one said anything until Rich Parkins, who had one year as a detective, came up to him in the corridor and said, “Hey, John, how’s it going?”
“Pretty good,” John said, knowing Rich meant the case.
“It’s getting a shitload of media, huh?”
“To be expected.”
John kept walking, hoping Rich wouldn’t keep up with him, but he did.
Rich said, “Hey, if you wanna talk it out, you know, do a little brainstorming, whatever, I’m available.”
John got the hidden implication loud and clear: He was so helpless at his job that he needed advice from some kid. John was forty-seven, Rich was thirty-two, but still.
John glared at Rich and said, “Thanks for the offer. I’ll seriously consider that,” then continued through the precinct.
John was glad that the door to the office of the precinct’s commanding officer, Detective Inspector Louis Morales, was shut and the lights were off. John knew if nothing popped in a day or two, Manhattan North would take over. Given the fairly high profile of the case, he was actually surprised they hadn’t tried already.
Sitting at his desk, John made some callbacks to Andrew Barnett’s work friends and talked to a couple of Barnett’s acquaintances from college, including an ex-roommate. Then, around eight thirty, an updated report from the medical examiner’s office arrived. Unfortunately it didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.
SEVENTEEN
Peter was having a very normal
day at work. He’d arrived at six o’clock and had spent the morning answering phones and handing out towels, and standing outside, giving flyers to passersby. The latest promotion was a membership of sixty-nine dollars a month, guaranteed for life for the first fifty people to sign up. Peter was in such an upbeat mood that he managed to convince seven people to come inside to talk to the membership consultant, and four of the meetings led to sales.
“Man, you’re really on a hot streak,” Jimmy said.
“It’s just luck,” Peter said.
“Luck, my ass. You know how many people we had handing out flyers? Too many to count. And you know how many times we ran that sixty-nine-dollars-a-month-for-life bullshit? But nobody ever got us four sales in one day off the street—that’s unbelievable. You got the knack, man, I’m serious. So what do you say? You ready to move up or what?”
“Move up?”
“To a full-time sales job, baby. It’s nine to five but you don’t gotta wear a suit. And we pay base plus commission. Big commission, you keep doing what you’ve been doing on the street. You know Sal? You know how much he made last year?”
“Fifty grand?”
“Seventy-five. And wanna know the truth, he doesn’t have half the skills you have. I watch you out there, the way you go
up to people. You know how to relate, know what I’m saying? Even some stranger on the street—man, woman, it doesn’t matter. They like you right away, and when they like you, they trust you. That’s the whole key with sales.”
“I am pretty good at it, huh?”
“Good? You’re freakin’ awesome, man. You can start tomorrow, you want, or next week if you need more time. I mean, not start start. I’m gonna have to train you and shit, but it’s nothing too complicated. Just how to use the software and get you familiar with some of the packages we offer and shit like that. But I’m not gonna tell you how to sell people. I think you got that part all figured out.”
Peter didn’t hesitate. He told Jimmy that he’d love to be a membership consultant and the sooner he started, the better. The truth was, of course, that he didn’t care one way or another. He’d just been working at the health club as a natural way to be around Katie and he was planning to quit as soon as they were officially together. But, in the meantime, he figured getting the promotion might help him win Katie over. Maybe it would give her the impression that he was a successful guy, a go-getter, a catch. Not that she didn’t have that impression already, but he figured it couldn’t hurt.
At noon, Peter left for the day. Clean-shaven, with his natural blond hair, Peter felt completely comfortable walking around the Upper East Side. Earlier, on his way to work, and now as he walked downtown, he noticed cops in the area. He had no idea whether this had anything to do with the murder, but he was pleased that the officers took no special notice of him.
It was a beautiful fall day. After the rain last night, the humidity had dropped and the sky was clear and the temperature was in the low sixties. He stopped at a little Italian restaurant on Second Avenue and sat outside and had penne with vodka sauce, a salad of arugula and shaved Parmesan, and a decent merlot. Then he took a cab downtown to his hotel. He was getting very tired of living at a place he didn’t own, of being in this constant state of limbo. Although the remodeling of his apartment wasn’t completed yet, he was planning to check out
of the hotel over the weekend and move into his new home. He didn’t plan to tell Katie about the apartment, though, until they had gone on at least a few real dates.
Peter plopped onto the bed and turned the TV on to NY1 News. Earlier in the day, at the health club, he’d seen a couple of TV news reports about the murder. It was a much bigger news story than he had expected it to be. He knew it would get attention because it wasn’t every day that someone got strangled to death near Gracie Mansion, but he had no idea it would be the top local news story. It probably was a racial thing. If Frat Boy had been black, the killing would’ve gotten attention because of the Gracie Mansion angle. But a clean-cut white guy being murdered was always juicy for the media.
Peter waited for the story to come on, and when it did, there seemed to be nothing new going on in the case. There was the same videotaped segment of a NYPD detective, John Himoto, giving a report of how the body had been discovered early this morning and how the police were conducting a thorough investigation. Then the anchorman talked about how Frat Boy had worked as a junior analyst at some major investment banking firm and had graduated from the University of Michigan last spring. Frat Boy’s friend from the double date was near tears as he talked about how Frat Boy was a great guy and how he couldn’t believe this had happened to him. Peter wondered why people always said that, that they couldn’t believe this had happened. People died. It happened suddenly and it happened every day. Deal with it.
When the report ended, Peter flicked off the TV. He was glad that there’d still been no mention about a latex glove being discovered, though he wasn’t sure the police would reveal this even if it had been. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Peter replayed the events of last night in his head and he still couldn’t think of any possible way he had slipped up except, maybe, for the glove.
“Good luck, Himoto,” Peter said, smiling, then he checked his cell phone to see if he had missed a call from Katie. He hadn’t. He figured she was at work and might not’ve even found out about the murder yet. Maybe the police would come
to her office to tell her, or maybe she wouldn’t find out until the evening. When she did, she’d probably be very upset and look for support from someone close to her. It would likely be someone familiar to her, who she felt safe with, who reminded her of her father. Peter smiled again, thrilled with how well everything was working out so far.
Feeling cooped up in the hotel room, Peter went out for a walk. He went across town to Broadway, then all the way downtown to SoHo. He browsed in art galleries and stopped for a glass of Prosecco at a wine bar. Then he headed back uptown, through the East Village. He was in the mood to escape his life for a while, to see a good movie, but there was nothing playing in the multiplex on Third Avenue and Eleventh Street except horror, action, and comic book-based movies. He wondered why Hollywood rarely seemed to produce straight love stories anymore. What was the world coming to?
It was six o’clock when Peter reached Kips Bay, the neighborhood where his hotel was located. He still hadn’t heard anything from Katie, and he was starting to wonder why she hadn’t contacted him yet. She must’ve gotten home from work by now and it was highly likely that she had found out about the murder. The police had probably met with her, because she’d been with Frat Boy the night he was killed, and they’d want to see if she knew anything. Of course, she’d be totally clueless.
Peter picked up some Indian food to go and took it back to the hotel room. As he ate the chicken tikka masala right out of the aluminum container, he had a horrible thought. He remembered how, in college, Katie’s sister Heather had killed herself. Suicidal tendencies sometimes ran in families, so Peter wondered if it was possible that Katie had become so distraught about Frat Boy’s death that she’d tried to kill herself. It was hard to imagine her caring so much about that fucking loser that she’d inflict harm on herself, but sometimes people did irrational things.
He desperately wanted to call her to make sure she was all right. He could say he was just watching the news and didn’t she mention she had a friend, Andrew? But he decided against
it, figuring she’d call him on her own; it was only a matter of time.
The rest of the evening, waiting for the phone to ring, was torture. Maybe twenty times he started dialing her number, then flipped his cell phone closed. He couldn’t stop thinking of her in the bathtub, slitting her wrists, or going to the top of a building and jumping. He tried to assure himself that she was okay; she had her roommate with her, and if the police thought she was suicidal they’d get her medical attention, but he couldn’t stop imagining the worst.
He was still confident that she’d call eventually—she had to; it didn’t make any sense that she wouldn’t—but he realized that the call might not come until tomorrow, or the next day, or even later. She might go to her parents for support first, maybe even go to Massachusetts for the weekend to be with them. If that happened, he might not hear from her until next week.
Then, around midnight, Peter was starting to doze when his phone started ringing.
“Peter.”
Her voice was the most amazing sound in the world. He was suddenly wide awake.
“Hey, how are you?”
This wasn’t acting, pretending he didn’t know what was going on. His only actual concern was how she was.
“I’m in a really bad way.”
“What happened?”
“Something bad.” She was crying, could barely get the words out. “Something really, really bad.”
“I’ll be right over,” Peter said.
As he raced out of the hotel and hailed a cab on Lex, he couldn’t stop smiling.
Katie had been in bed crying since Detective Himoto had left. Susan sat with her for a while and tried her best to console her. Reporters from the
Post, News
, and other papers buzzed the apartment, and Katie went down and answered their questions, telling them how she couldn’t believe this had happened and how shocked she was. The whole thing felt surreal.
At one point in the evening, Katie called home. But as soon as she started to tell her mother what had happened, she knew she’d made a mistake. Her mother was upset, of course, but wasn’t capable of offering any real support. She went on about how horrible it was and then she suggested coming to New York, with Katie’s father, in the morning. Katie agreed to let them come, but later, as she continued to sob, she realized her parents visiting wouldn’t accomplish anything. They would have no idea how to handle the way she was feeling right now, and she planned to call them later or first thing in the morning to tell them not to bother.
But she had to talk to someone to get her feelings out, someone mature, someone who “got it.” She thought about calling a friend, maybe Amanda, but then she had a better idea and called Peter. He was mature, had a sensitive nature, and she felt like she could talk to him.
When the buzzer rang she dragged herself out of bed and let him up. She stood partway in the hallway, propping the door open with her foot. She heard him racing up the stairs, probably taking them two at a time. Then he appeared on the landing, rushed over, and hugged her and assured her that everything was going to be okay. She felt safe in his strong arms and she knew she’d done the right thing by calling him.
She started crying again and he consoled her, telling her everything was going to be okay.
Then, after maybe ten minutes, he asked, “What happened?”
She couldn’t say it at first, then she said, “Andy…that guy I…was…,” really struggling with the last word, “m…m…murd…murdered.”
“Jesus,” Peter said. His voice cracked as though he might start to cry himself, but he didn’t.
He sat next to her on the couch, with his arm around her. She explained that Andy had been strangled and that his body had been discovered early this morning.
“Do the cops have any idea who could’ve done it?” Peter asked, squinting hard, showing real concern.
Katie shook her head.
“Fuck,” Peter said. “I’m so sorry, Katie. I’m so, so sorry.”
After hugging her for a while longer, he asked her if she wanted something to eat or drink. She shook her head, but when she admitted she felt a little weak, he insisted. He went into the kitchen and made her tea and brought her out some chips and salsa as well. She noticed he’d shaved his goatee and told him that it looked good, that she liked seeing more of his face. The food and the tea made her feel a lot better and she was able to relax a little—enough to talk anyway.
She told Peter about how Andy had been over at her place yesterday evening and how everything had seemed so normal, more normal than it ever had before. Then she told him about how she’d first met Andy, at Brother Jimmy’s on Third Avenue, and how he was a great guy and didn’t deserve to die so young. Peter was such a great listener. He looked into her eyes the whole time and really seemed to care about what she was saying.
They started talking about other stuff—deep, philosophical stuff like life and death, God, religion. Katie said that sometimes she believed that God existed, sometimes she didn’t, but that days like today she definitely didn’t.