Restitution Read online

  “Wrong,” I said loudly. “I can find the fucker who killed my wife and put a bullet in his head.”

  A few of the junior staff nearby gaped openly. Tigger bounced nervously on his toes. We both knew I was going to knock his hand away if he didn’t back off, and we both knew he wasn’t going to back off. His eyes slid over my shoulder and he scowled. Eve Lemonde was threading her way across the floor in my direction, a somber expression on her face.

  “Listen,” Tigger said urgently. “Don’t lose your temper and don’t agree to nothin’ without having a lawyer look at it.” He scuttled back to his desk, dropping Eve a deep curtsy as she passed and eliciting a flinty glare in response.

  Eve’s my age, vanishingly thin, finely coiffed, devoid of humor, and as meticulously false as any professional flack. Josh hired her as much to do his dirty work as to run Human Resources. I’d always maintained a decent relationship with her because it was the politic thing to do, but she and Tigger openly loathed each other.

  “I thought we’d take a walk, Peter,” Eve said.

  “Why not?” I replied, falsely nonchalant. “I’ll grab my coat.”

  We walked down Broadway into Battery Park. Eve offered her condolences. She asked how I was holding up, and nodded sincerely at my evasions. We settled on a bench overlooking the harbor and she let me have it.

  “You’re on compassionate leave indefinitely. Full pay, full benefits. The firm won’t comment publicly.”

  “This is from Josh?”

  “Yes. You can call him if you really want to.”

  Her gratuitous suggestion was intended to warn me off. Josh had been as happy for me to line his pocket as I was for him to line mine, but, just as Tigger had warned me, he was going to have trouble remembering my name now that I was a liability.

  “Indefinite until when?”

  “December. You’ll get a fair payout in exchange for a resignation letter and a release.”

  I’d been on Eve’s side of this conversation a hundred times. Being on the other side didn’t feel real. I made an effort to keep my voice light.

  “What if things get straightened out?”

  Eve twisted sideways to face me head-on, her plucked eyebrows and crimson lips miming disappointment.

  “The damage is already done. Don’t you see that? The police have been questioning employees, demanding to speak with clients, subpoenaing records. The funeral was the last straw. Josh doesn’t want a picture of you walking into our office on the front page of the New York Post. We have to do what’s best for the firm.”

  I gazed out over the water at a single sailboat jibing lazily downwind, unable to think of anything else to say. Realizing the conversation was over, I got up to go. There was nothing in my office that Keisha couldn’t box and ship.

  “We’ll send the paperwork to your home,” Eve said. “We want to be fair.”

  “Wrong line, Eve. You were supposed to say, ‘It was nothing personal; it was just business.’ ”

  She stared at me woodenly, uncertain as to the emotion she should feign. I turned and walked north purposefully, shoulders tall, not knowing where I was headed, or what I was going to do when I got there.

  I rip Josh’s letter in half, and then in half again. A few days after my chat with Eve, she sent me an express-mail envelope containing a release and a confidentiality agreement. Both were laughably onerous, the kicker being a provision in each that I accept an arbiter of Klein’s choice in the event of any subsequent dispute between us. It’s easier to get a fair decision from a North Korean court than it is from a Wall Street arbiter. I tossed both documents in the trash, exhausted by the thought of negotiating with her. Every third day’s brought a fresh demand for my signature, the language increasingly insistent. Despite Eve’s evident frustration at my silence, it surprises me that she troubled to have Josh write. Klein’s lawyers must be worried about something. I drop the pieces of Josh’s letter into the garbage can under the table, disappointed that I don’t feel more pleasure at making him unhappy.

  Tigger got fired a week after I did. It was no surprise to either of us. Lemonde used to speak of him as “aged inventory” at our annual personnel reviews, a trading-desk term of art that means roughly the same thing as three-day-old bread. We’d been getting together regularly to play golf before the weather changed, but it’s been difficult since then. Without some kind of activity there’s nothing to fill the gaps in our conversation, and the one time we got drunk together I broke down and made a fool of myself.

  Mail dealt with, I open the drawer in the kitchen table and take out a worn kraft box containing my father’s service pistol and a cloth-wrapped cleaning kit. I remove the magazine, double-check to make sure the chamber’s empty, let the slide ride forward, and then press down on the recoil-spring plug, field-stripping the weapon exactly the way my father taught me years ago. It’s soothing to clean the gun, all the pieces precisely machined. I haven’t actually fired it in years, because I never bothered to get a New York permit, but I remember the thunderous roar it made when I shot it as a boy, my dad leaning over my shoulder and wrapping his large hand around my small one to help absorb the recoil.

  Reassembled, the gun fits comfortably in my adult grip. It’s better not to dry-fire a weapon without a dummy round in the chamber to protect the firing pin, so I unload the live rounds from the magazine and arrange them in a neat heptagon before replacing them with a handful of snap caps I keep in a Ziploc bag. Racking the slide, I sight down the barrel and imagine Jenna’s killer on his knees before me, features smudged and dark eyes wide with terror. I pull the trigger. The metallic click echoes loudly off the hard kitchen surfaces, and I see the killer’s head jerk backward as my bullet smashes into his face, brains spattering the wall behind him. He crumples sideways, a pool of blood forming beneath his cheek as life fades from his eyes like light from an old cathode-ray tube. I cycle the slide by hand, ejecting a faux round onto the kitchen floor, and picture the killer on his knees again. His head snaps back repeatedly as I pull the trigger again and again, dull metal cartridges cascading from the ejection port until the slide locks open. Tears of rage blur my vision as I smash the impotent gun down onto the table, adding to the deep gouges already there.

  Minutes tick past as my breathing calms slowly. The refrigerator cycles on and then off again, the entire house preternaturally quiet. It’s just before seven. Most mornings, I load and fire the gun until my finger aches too much to pull the trigger, consumed by my fantasy of revenge. Not this morning. Gathering the false ammunition from the floor, I seal it in the Ziploc bag. It’s time to face the truth.

  Jenna’s murderer will likely never be caught. The ex-cops I hired as investigators turned out to be better at gathering dirt on their former brethren than they were at generating fresh leads. Tilling took over the investigation after the footage of Rommy attacking me in the parking lot became an instant Internet sensation, forcing him to resign. To the best of my knowledge, I’m still the only suspect, and she’s been wasting most of her time on my financial records, trying to find some link to the killer she thinks I hired.

  The small satisfaction I felt at Rommy’s dismissal curdled when he landed a job with a society journalist who’s writing a book about Jenna’s murder. They published a teaser in New York magazine last month, twelve pages of lurid insinuations carefully crafted to skirt libel. Tigger wrote an outraged letter to the editor that never ran; the one letter published in my defense was from a Texas divorce lawyer, reminding readers that even scum like me deserve a fair trial. Rommy’s been calling me regularly, usually late at night, to slur drunken imprecations. I was scrupulously polite at first, figuring that was the best way to piss him off, but recently I’ve just been hanging up, my interest in playing games with him having faded. And Rommy’s aren’t the only late-night calls I’ve been receiving—he was right about the neighbors.

  Jenna’s parents never gave me a chance to explain myself. Mary demanded I resign in her favor as Jenna’
s executor, and I complied, hoping to open a dialogue. She immediately filed a civil suit for wrongful death against me on behalf of the estate, and obtained a court order freezing all the assets Jenna and I had held jointly. My lawyer thinks she might win, despite the lack of hard evidence. Nobody likes rich guys who cheat on their wives and lie to the cops, he might say, if he were ever candid. If I lose, political pressure will probably force the Westchester DA to file criminal charges against me, and a jury trial is always a crapshoot. The insurance company is refusing to release any money to me without litigation, and legal fees are rapidly consuming my ready cash.

  When I was a boy, a teacher who’d played minor-league ball slipped from a diving board. The news that he’d become a quadriplegic shocked me, intimating a chance vulnerability I’d never considered. I crept into my dad’s bathroom one morning while he was shaving.

  “What’s up, Sherlock?” he said, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

  “Mr. Jackson,” I said. “What’s he going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Everyone has to make their own decisions.”

  “What would you do?”

  My dad looked away, staring at himself in the mirror for a moment before dragging his straight-edged razor up his throat with a long backhanded stroke.

  “You’re playing chess,” he said, setting down the razor and picking up a lit cigarette from the edge of the sink. “You let the other guy fork your king and queen. You’re nine points or more behind in material. What do you do?”

  “Resign.”

  He took a deep drag and then exhaled, a cloud of white smoke obscuring his features in the glass. “There’s no point to life without dignity,” he said.

  I wash the dishes and the coffeepot and set everything out to dry on a clean towel. Returning to the table, I pick up the gun, select a single brass jacked bullet from the rounds I unloaded earlier, and carefully feed it into the chamber. Cleaning solvent burns my tongue like a nine-volt battery as I put the gun in my mouth. The trigger requires a six-pound pull to fire. A half gallon of milk weighs four pounds. I pull, hard enough to lift a quart of milk, a half gallon, more. The gun shakes violently and I bite down on the barrel, trying to still my trembling. My ears are ringing, an odd repetitive note that takes me a moment to recognize. Someone’s ringing my doorbell. I take the gun from my mouth and let it dangle from the trigger guard, leaning forward to rest my head on the scarred table. I wonder whether I should answer the door.

  7

  DETECTIVE TILLING’S on the front step. She’s wearing an olive surplus parka and has an orange knit longshoreman’s cap covering her hair. A scowling black woman stands a few paces back and to one side, her right hand hidden behind an unzipped brown leather coat. Tilling looks me over, taking in my rumpled T-shirt and baggy sweatpants.

  “Did we wake you?” she asks.

  I shrug, feeling half-dazed. The black woman looks ready for a confrontation, but I assume I’d already be handcuffed if they were going to arrest me. I wonder if Tilling can smell gun oil on me.

  “My new partner,” Tilling says, pointing with a thumb. “Detective Ellis. We’d like to talk to you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We learned something interesting recently. It could be a lead. We could use your help sorting it out.”

  The haze in my brain is dissipated by a rush of adrenaline. I’ve got to be careful here. My lawyer was furious at me for talking to Tilling in the parking lot at the funeral, icily informing me that while a judge would almost certainly have excluded Winowski’s statements, my admission to Tilling that I’d cheated on Jenna gave the DA an irrefutable motive to work with.

  “I’ll have to call my lawyer,” I say.

  “You waived your right to counsel last time we spoke,” Tilling says. “You’re welcome to reassert it, but I got to tell you, I’m not in the mood for a seventeen-point negotiation this morning. This is a simple deal, and it hasn’t got anything to do with your mystery girlfriend. I tell you what we’ve turned up, and you answer a couple of questions if you feel like it. No obligations.”

  I hesitate. It’s a compelling offer. I’m anxious to know what she’s learned and, truth be told, I despise the condescending little fucker who represents me.

  “We’ve been waiting on your beauty sleep for an hour and a half. You’re too busy to give us fifteen minutes?” Tilling asks, a mocking note to her voice. “You got a big day planned? Lots to do?”

  I’m happier talking to her than to Rommy, but that’s no reason for me to take her shit.

  “Cops must spend a lot of time hanging out in their cars,” I say. “Tell me, is it a professional disadvantage for you ladies, not being able to piss in a bottle?”

  Tilling laughs, a staccato bark.

  “Yes or no, Peter. Ellis is going to catch cold.”

  “You want to come in?”

  “No. We haven’t had breakfast yet. There’s a coffee shop on Willow. You know it?”

  “I know it. Give me ten minutes. I have to get dressed.”

  “Peter.” She touches her ear and motions at me to do the same. “Shaving cream,” she says.

  ———

  The coffee shop is almost full, the morning rush under way. Tilling and Ellis are seated side by side on a banquette, their coats draped over their laps. Ellis has a heart-shaped face, short-cropped hair, and wide-set eyes. She looks about fourteen. I smile at her as I sit down opposite, and get a fresh glower back. A tired-looking waitress fills our water glasses and pours coffee, greeting both cops by name.

  “You come here often?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Tilling says, pushing a powdered doughnut toward me. “To use the bathroom. Ground rules, Peter. I tell you what we know, you promise to follow up through us. I don’t want to hear that your rental cops are chasing our leads.”

  “I didn’t agree to any ground rules.”

  Tilling lays a finger on my wrist as I’m lifting my coffee, preventing the cup from reaching my mouth.

  “We’re not wasting our time here, are we, Peter? Because Ellis and I really have got other things to do.”

  I shift the cup from one hand to the other, shaking her finger away.

  “You do your job right and I won’t have to ask anyone else to chase your leads.”

  She stares silently. I pick the doughnut up without thinking and immediately set it back down again, revulsed. Thirty seconds pass. I sip coffee, determined to make her speak first. She slips a manila folder from an interior coat pocket and puts it on the table in front of her, one hand resting on top protectively. Jenna’s name is written on the label.

  “I’m listening,” I say.

  “You know a guy named Andrei Zhilina?”

  “Sure,” I reply uncomfortably. I e-mailed Andrei repeatedly after the funeral and left multiple messages on his voice mail, slow to realize he must be ducking me on purpose. It’s hard to believe he’d blow me off at a time like this, regardless of what happened between me and his sister, but there’s no other conclusion to be drawn. His silence has been one more thing dragging me down.

  “How?”

  “We met right out of college. We did a training program together at Klein and Klein, and then we were roommates at business school.”

  “What did he do after business school?”

  “Worked for the World Bank in London for a long time and then took a job with Turndale and Company about eighteen months ago. Why?”

  “When’s the last time you spoke to him?” she asks, ignoring my question.

  “It’s been a few months,” I say, trying not to sound defensive. “He’s based out of Moscow, so we don’t get a chance to catch up too much.”

  “Was he at the funeral?”

  “I’m not sure. You may recall I left early.”

  “You know where he is right now?”

  “I thought you were going to talk and I was going to listen,” I say irritably.

  Tilling taps the folder.

  “FedEx del
ivered a package from Andrei to your home the day before Jenna was murdered. Your cleaning lady signed for it at four-seventeen in the afternoon. She said she left it on the kitchen counter. You know what was in it?”

  “No. I never saw a package.”

  “When we went through the house together, you told us nothing was missing. Did you notice anything new? The size of a toaster oven or smaller, weighing two pounds or less?”

  I cast backward in my memory to the walk-through I’d done with the cops the day after Jenna’s murder, every detail seared indelibly in my mind.

  “No.”

  “Any guess what it might have been?”

  “Andrei and Jenna were book buddies,” I say. “Like her and Father Winowski, except they mainly read stuff about politics and art. I’d guess he sent her a book.”

  Ellis produces a pad from her coat and jots a note.

  “They’d read books and then talk on the phone?” Tilling asks.

  “Or exchange e-mail.”

  “Was that a problem for you?”

  “Was what a problem for me?”

  “That your wife and Andrei were so chummy.”

  “Never,” I say emphatically, realizing that I’ve accidentally given them another false lead to chase. “We were all old friends.”

  Ellis scribbles away as Tilling frowns down at the table, likely formulating another clumsy insinuation. I can feel my anger rising. Close as Andrei and Jenna were, there wasn’t ever a moment when I didn’t trust them together.

  “Why’d you give all the stuff in the house away?” Tilling asks unexpectedly.

  Jenna kept a Murano glass dish that she’d bought on our honeymoon on the front hall table. It was the first thing I’d seen when I entered the house with the police. The cops had been using it as an ashtray. It was all I could do not to weep.

  “None of your business.”

  “Maybe if you told me this one inconsequential thing,” Tilling says wearily, looking up at me, “I could kid myself that you were going to help us.”

  The waitress stops to fill my coffee cup, giving me a few seconds to think. I’m going to have to make some good-faith gestures if I want Tilling on my side, regardless of how hard it is for me.