He closed and locked the door and stood watching from the front window as the police got back in their respective cars and drove silently away. He sat at the desk. The loose reserves were down to less than a hundred pieces now. Nearing completion. He made himself home two more pieces on the working edge, and then he went upstairs to assess the damage.
It resembled the aftermath of a freak storm, or a haunting. Every door and drawer was hanging open. He went around rectifying things. They’d left the safe open, but his gun was still there. And his permit. No cash for them to confiscate. Not in here, anyway. He locked the safe and checked the bathroom. They’d removed the top of the toilet cistern, but replaced it imperfectly. A thin fillet of darker paint was exposed where the lid wasn’t sitting level. He jiggled it home. The phone in the kitchen rang. He went downstairs and answered. It was his neighbor, Vera.
She said, ‘A visitation.’
‘Yes.’
‘From members of the state. Representatives.’
‘Yeah. They’re gone now, though. How’s your day going?’
‘No complaints. That is, none that I would voice to a neighbor. To a tenant.’
‘That’s good.’
‘So what is it, makes you man of interest?’
He didn’t want to get into it with her on the phone. ‘Mistaken identity.’
‘They think you are not the man you are. Or they think another man is you.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Which is why you are here, and not there. With them. A backseat ride.’
‘Exactly. Vera, sorry, I have to go. I’ll come over next week and tell you all about it.’
‘Everything is all right?’
‘Yes, everything is all right. Thank you very much for checking, though.’
He went to hang up, but had an idea.
‘Sorry, you there?’
‘Yes.’
He said, ‘Do you have a computer?’
‘Several.’
Marshall said, ‘Who do you go to when you need one fixed?’
‘Few are fixed. The theme is malfunction.’
Marshall said, ‘So you don’t have someone you take your computer to?’
‘When desperate, in moments of desperation, yes. I visit Larry.’
‘Where’s Larry?’
‘Newkirk. Newkirk Avenue. I have found him competent.’
‘All right then.’
‘When searched for on Google, Larry’s business, he has four-point-nine stars. I agree with this rating of him.’
‘Great.’
‘Something needs fixed?’
‘No. I just need to ask him a question.’
She nodded slowly. ‘You play with cards close to stomach.’
‘Chest. Yeah.’
‘Chest. Yes. Everything is OK?’
‘Thanks, Vera. I’ll see you.’
He hung up, and stood for a few seconds with his hand on the phone on the wall, just thinking. Then he used his burner to call Jordan Mora’s number. Still no answer. The call went to voicemail.
‘Hey. Just me. Marshall. Give me a call when you get a chance.’
He went outside and stood at the curb, wanting to be sure the police had genuinely departed. But the cars on the street were all familiar. Nothing that looked like law enforcement, or pre-arrest recon. He could hear Vera – faint but trenchant Russian coming from her upstairs office. Barely a pause. He wondered if she was giving an online lecture. He watched the street for another couple of minutes, and then he turned and slipped down the narrow alleyway between his house and Vera’s. He moved quietly into her rear yard and opened the little access hatch to the subfloor. When he’d moved in, she’d requested his help with a broken pipe beneath her kitchen. It was the gray water discharge line from her sink, and it had separated at the elbow joint. An easy fix, as it transpired. The original plumbing had been replaced with PVC, and all he’d had to do was slot the section back in and silicone the gap. He’d also taken the opportunity to nail an eighteen-inch square piece of plywood to the underside of two floor joists, thereby creating an eight-inch-deep cavity between the plywood and the flooring above. It was here that he stored his proceeds from this undercover work: the cash bundle triple-wrapped in black plastic, ribboned cross-ways with gleaming black duct-tape, like a gift from the anti-Santa.
He checked that his package was undisturbed, and then crawled back out. As he closed the subfloor hatch, he felt the burner phone buzzing in his pocket with a call. He checked the screen: Jordan Mora’s number.
He answered quietly. ‘Sorry, just give me a second.’
He slipped along the alleyway to the street and went back inside his own place, locked the door again behind him.
‘You still there?’
‘Yeah, I’m here. I saw I missed a couple of calls. I thought it was probably you.’
He said, ‘Did you think at the time it was probably me and decide not to answer, or did you just think of it now?’
Quiet. He thought he might have misjudged that one.
She said, ‘I couldn’t decide whether to go to the funeral or not. In the end I thought maybe it was safer to stay away.’
‘It was all right. As far as funerals go.’
She said, ‘Look, I’m … I have the afternoon off. Or, I mean – I can take it. I thought we could maybe do something. If you’re free?’
‘I …’ He wasn’t sure how much to tell her on the phone: Boston, the trip out to New Jersey with Cifaretti’s crowd. He worried the more he told her, the less inclined she’d be to want to see him. Maybe this was all the kind of stuff he’d need to say in person. And they’d either arrest him, or they wouldn’t. Might as well play the odds, see her while he had the opportunity.
He said, ‘That’d be great. Why don’t you … do you want to come over, and we can grab some dinner?’
‘OK. That sounds nice.’
He gave her his address and she said she’d be around later that afternoon, five-ish. He ended the call, and for an entire second felt relieved, buoyant with the anticipation of seeing her again, and then he was back to pondering just how long he had before there were more police at his door. It’d be FBI, most likely, for an interstate offence, with multiple corpses. The crime scenes were a bleach swamp, so he doubted they’d have evidence beyond the circumstantial. But they’d still bring him in and hold him for a while. He needed to be out and free long enough to chase down the last of this Vialoux matter, get to the bottom of his bad feeling …
He checked the front window again. Still nothing that looked official. He called Ginny Boyne.
‘Sorry to keep pestering you.’
‘No, no. You’re not a bother. Don’t apologize.’
‘Do you remember, did Ray give you a receipt or anything? When he took Jennifer’s possessions?’
‘I don’t think so … no, he didn’t. There was no need. We trusted him with everything, obviously.’
Marshall said, ‘Sure, of course. Do you happen to have a serial number for the computer, anything like that?’
‘Probably. We have all of her things, packaged together.’
‘Terrific.’
Quiet for a long moment. She said, ‘I thought you were trying to confirm Ray’s movements.’
‘Yes, I am. This is all part of it.’
‘I’m just …’
‘Yes?’
She said, ‘It seems like … aren’t we going a little off-track?’
‘Like I say, I’m really sorry to keep pestering you, but it is important. Every little detail is important with these things.’
‘I just don’t see how it’s relevant.’
‘Ma’am.’ Slipping into his old cop voice. Like stepping through a door in his mind, and there was the uniform right there on its hanger.
He said, ‘It could be really important. If you can tell me the serial number, it would be greatly appreciated.’
Silence. Then: ‘You’ll have to hold for a moment.’
‘Thank you. I can wait.’
It was five minutes before she came back on. ‘Do you have a pen?’
‘Yes. Go ahead.’
She read out a long serial number for him. ‘The docket in here, the warranty, it says it’s a Microsoft Surface. If that’s any help.’
‘Thank you. That’s very helpful. One last question.’
‘Yes?’
‘Can you confirm for me again the date your daughter died?’
Ginny Boyne said, ‘I didn’t realize it was going to be such a detailed excavation.’
He didn’t know what to say to that.
She said, ‘August ninth. She passed August ninth.’
Then she ended the call.
Marshall got up from the desk and went through to the kitchen, hunted through cupboards and found the old copy of the Yellow Pages that Vera had left him. He opened it at C and found computer repairs. Dozens of them. Twenty-five places between here and Sunset Park alone. He saw a number for Computers by Larry. Newkirk Avenue. That would be Vera’s go-to man. Mr Four-point-nine stars on Google.
Marshall called the number.
No answer.
He tried the next number on the list. Lev’s PC repairs.
‘This is Lev.’
‘Hello. I’m looking to buy a computer secondhand. The seller tells me you deleted the contents for her a couple of months ago.’
Shit, that wasn’t the term. It was called something else … reformatting. That’s right: you reformatted a hard disk.
The guy said, ‘I’ll need some more info than that, pal.’
‘It’s a Microsoft Surface.’
‘And what was the customer’s name?’
‘Uh … I don’t know. I’m buying it online, I just have a username.’
‘I’m not sure I have time for a mystery.’
‘I have the serial number if that helps? She says she brought it in sometime between August ninth and August twelfth …’
‘Well, she’s mistaken. I was out of town first half of August. Have a nice day.’
He kept at it.
He tried more numbers, and got a litany of ‘no’s. He tried Larry’s again. Still no answer.
Three thirty, there was a knock at his door.
It wasn’t the police, and it wasn’t Jordan.
It was Ella Vialoux.