About Face (41 page)

The surgeon.

I see him again in my mind.

He's saying something.

Realizing I can use the influx of people now on the platform to my advantage, I crouch while still moving as fast as I can on low, crooked legs.

I keep moving.

Keep moving.

Then—

I break left, through the crowd, and onto the train. Channeling my last life, I truly feel I've timed it right. The doors start closing. I feel the air returning to my lungs.

The doors bounce open again.

No.

Fuck!

Standing up again, I look out through the subway car windows at the platform in the direction we came from.

Why? Why did the doors open?

Is someone holding a door open for someone else to make it?

Is there a hold-up up ahead?

My heart is racing. My chest feels tight.

The surgeon.

I see him again.

Only now, I can hear him too.

Like a narrator; my life, the film.

“No matter how we change the way we look, there is one thing we can never change. Our eyes. And there will always be a special few that no matter what you have done to conceal your birth face will always be able to recognize your eyes.”

“No,” I whisper, “it can't be.”

I see Morante and the officers running into view. He's spotted me. Preparing for war, I pull the gun from my waistline. He keeps running toward the subway, toward me, only now he has his iPhone up to his face.

I'm trapped.

“My guess—” I hear the surgeon in my mind say again, “those people will not let you know they have identified you until it is too late.”

Realizing Morante is trying to get a photograph of me, I lift my free hand in front of my face. When I do, through my fingers, I see someone running full speed slam into Morante sending both of them flying just before he jumps on board.

I'm as baffled as I am relieved.

The doors close. We start moving.

What just happened?

Did he get a clear picture?

I move to the door to look through the glass. Just like that—my last image of Morante—sprawled out on the platform. He's gone, as we pull out of the station into Manhattan's underground maze.

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
2013

At Forty-Second Street, I transfer to the One Train, take the One up to Fiftieth Street, exit, head above ground, then head West toward Sixth Avenue. My nerves are jacked. I'm riled up. I'm pissed, amped, freaked. But I remain calm, cautious. Morante may have a halfway decent picture of me, he may not. Either way—that's all. He doesn't have a name, he doesn't have a single piece of information about where I've come from, how I got here, where I'm staying, anything about me. No matter what he thinks he may know, what his gut's telling him—I could give a shit. So long as I stick to my plan, I'll be long gone by the time he starts making heads from tails. Hopefully, he'll start going on all the information I gave him on our ride back from D.C. Or he'll make this about finding me instead of finding the truth. I can only hope for the former. Truth is, who knows?

I look at the Perregaux—6:44 p.m. I keep my gait strong, purposeful. The evening air is raw, the dimming gray sky helping ease crisscrossing New Yorkers into night. My mind is spinning from everything happening. I'm wired. I'm exhausted. I see a bodega. I grab three Life Fuels, down one on the spot, and put the other two in my pocket. I keep moving.

I take out both phones. I Google NYPD Precincts on the
iPhone. Once a comprehensive list comes up I go with the Thirteenth Precinct on East Twenty-First Street. Yes, Lovell was in Scott Green's office, but I'm guessing he's from the precinct closest to Green's home. I dial the number into the disposable and hit send. I replace the iPhone in its rightful pocket.

“NYPD,” a gruff, female voice answers.

“Hi, I'm looking for Detective Lovell,” I say. “Is he in?”

“Let me see. Give me one second.”

I wait.

“I'll transfer you.”

I wait again.

“Lovell.”

“Detective Lovell, I'm going to speak for sixty seconds. So I suggest you begin writing.”

“What? Who is this?”

“I'm guessing you were following up on Scott Green's suicide as a matter of protocol, making sure there was no foul play due to the odd nature of the circumstances. His conservative history, a loving family, alone in a houseboat in Amsterdam, all of it.”

“Who is this?” he asks again.

“Scott Green did in fact kill himself. But he was driven to it. He sacrificed himself to save his family. You want to worry about how, or do you want to worry about my name?”

“Wait—wait—”

I hear fumbling around. He's grabbing a pen and paper.

“Okay. Tell me what you know.”

“Go to Scott Green's home. His wife, Anne, is expecting you. You are the only one she is going to speak with. Tell her you want to see everything on her husband's computer in his study. Make sure she shows you the
VivRecord.com
account. Then, make sure she shows you the e-mails with the photo attachments.”

“Viv what?”

“
VivRecord.com
,” I repeat, then spell it for him. “It's an audio file storage site. One for the purpose of recording and storing telephone conversations.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Yes. After that, go to the home of a Julia Chastain,” I continue, giving him her address. “In the kitchen, under the tray holding the silverware in the silverware drawer, there is a tiny flash drive. On that flash drive are conversations between Ryan Brand, a colleague of Scott Green's, and Enzo Alessi, the man on the other end of the conversations you'll be hearing on Scott's home computer. A man the U.S. government is very interested in. Got it?”

“Flash drive. Conversations. Ryan Brand. Enzo Alessi. Got it.”

“Julia Chastain is also a colleague of Green and Brand. Unlike Anne Green, Ms. Chastain is unaware you will be visiting, and I'd keep it that way. She's fucking Brand—a married man—and she may or may not be involved in all this. I'll leave that up to you to determine.”

There's a brief pause. I figure Lovell is finishing up his notes.

“Got it. Anything else?”

“You have a busy evening ahead of you, Detective. Good-bye.”

6:54 p.m.

I walk into the GlassWell headquarters building, stop at the security desk, and get my temporary badge. I head upstairs and straight to Julia's office. I let myself in and stop in front of her desk.

“Where the hell have you been?” she yells at me, jumping from her chair. “What the hell are you fucking people trying to pull, Ivan?”

“Sit down, Julia.”

“Excuse me? Really? You think you're going to—”

I take the gun from my pocket. I point it at her face.

“Sit down. Now.”

Her arms still at her side, like her elbows are attached to her sides, her hands flare out.

“Holy shit, Ivan. I … I—”

“Sit down now,” I say again.

She does.

“What the hell are you doing, Ivan?”

“Where's Brand?”

“Ryan? I … I don't know … I mean, he probably—”

“Get him in here,” I cut her off. “Now.”

“I … I'll try. I mean, he may be—”

I drop a fist to the desk. I lean forward.

“I'm guessing with his deal cratering the way it is, he's available. And if he's not—I don't care if he's in fucking Dubai. Find him. And get him in here. Now.”

She tries his office. No answer. Then she calls his cell. He's in another colleague's office just down the hall. He's on his way.

“What's going on, Ivan?” asks Julia. “Why are you doing this?”

“Did you know?” I respond with a question of my own.

Nothing.

“Did you?” I press.

“Did I know what?”

The door opens.

“Janse, what are you doing here? We closing this deal or what?”

“Close the door,” I say.

He does. Then I show him the gun.

“Sit down. Now.”

He looks at Julia.

“What don't you understand about sit down?” I growl.

I step to him and put the gun to his head. I hear a scared shriek come from Julia behind me.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Okay.”

He takes a seat facing Julia's desk. He sheepishly turns to me.

“What's going on, Janse?”

“Fuck off, you lowlife. I'll be asking the questions as well as making the statements. If I want to hear from you, I'll ask. Understood?”

He nods.

Standing to the side of the office, where I face both Julia behind her desk and Brand in front of it, I drop the gun to my side.

“I want you to both know that I get it. And that while you
almost pulled it off, this is all happening because—well—you didn't—”

“You're not making any sense, Ivan,” Julia says.

“I know Alessi was strong-armed into leasing the Annex with a promise from you to help pay his tax bill with GlassWell funds. As much as I know he has zero intention of honoring that lease, which we all know destroys the property's financial viability.”

“What?” says Brand, doing a terrible acting job.

“You heard me.”

Brand's expression goes from fake surprise to fake serious.

“You're delusional, Janse. Do you realize what you're saying? What you're doing?”

On the contrary, Ryan Brand.

Do you have any idea who you decided to fuck with?

“What are you talking about, Ivan?” Julia chimes in. “That's crazy.”

“Ah, so you two want to play games, is that right?” I ask. “Is that right?”

The video of Green blowing his head off plays in my head.

I calmly walk over to Julia.

“Let me ask you something, Ryan.” I go on. “You ever seen a head blow up? Like what must have happened when Scott Green took his own life?”

Neither says a word. Then, I grab the back of Julia's head like a cantaloupe with my left hand, gripping it tight.

“Open your mouth,” I tell her.

“Ow! Ivan, you're hurting me,” she says, her words rife with shock.

“You have no idea what pain is, Julia. Now open your fucking mouth. Or I'm going to open it for you.”

Brand stands up. I point the gun straight between his eyes, no more than a few feet away from me. He stops dead in his tracks. I see him swallow.

“Sure you want to play hero?”

He sits.

I return my attention to Julia.

“I'll say it one last time. Open your fucking mouth.”

Adrenaline and caffeine are coursing through me so violently I feel my veins throbbing. I'm boiling.

Finally Julia listens.

And I jam the gun in her mouth.

“Open wider!” I demand.

Tears are flowing from Julia's eyes. Some of them are mixing with the snot bubbles under her nostrils and running onto the shiny metal in her mouth.

I move my eyes to Brand as I keep talking.

“That's right, Sweet Julia—take it deeper.”

I push it in farther.

Fear is pouring from Brand's eyes.

Fear of what happens next.

“What do you want?” he says quietly, almost in a whisper.

“What's your bigger fear right now?” I go on, disregarding his words. “That Julia will actually feel pain—maybe die—or that no matter what comes from all this, it's a guarantee your wife, your kids, everyone you have ever known in your entire life is going to learn all about what a piece of shit you are?”

He's about to say something, but stops. Now I see something else in his eyes. An understanding.

“I have the conversations between you and Alessi. All of them. Green may have been afraid of you fucks, but you underestimated him. He had more fire in him than you realized. And now you're all going to pay for what you did.”

Brand says nothing. He looks at Julia.

“Because of what you did a life was lost,” I go on, “a family was ruined.”

“Look, I—” Brand starts, “it—I never wanted any of this to happen. Really. It just—everything got so, so—”

An image of my father goes off in my brain like a firework. I look at Julia. She's a crumbling mess, her makeup running everywhere.

“And Julia,” he continues, “Julia, I mean, Julia knew we were pushing him but, but, I mean—she had nothing to do with how, you know, how—”

My eyes are reaching deep into Julia's. She's genuinely scared for her life. I take the gun from her mouth. I step away. Sobbing, she collapses forward into her own lap.

“This man—this was a simple, family kind of man. A man his kids were lucky to grow up with. A man whose wife loved him. Because of you—because of your fucking selfishness about your fucking building you took him from all of them. You took him from himself. Who the fuck do you think you are?”

I walk toward Brand. I look at Julia, waving the gun in her direction.

“I keep wondering if you knew about all this, or if you got pulled in because of the guy you're fucking—behind his wife's back, apparently,” I go on. “And you know what I decided? I have no idea. Nor do I care. If you really knew nothing, the cops will come to that conclusion. And I promise you—they're coming to look. Right in your backyard.”

I stop in front of Brand. I look down at him.

“Get on your knees.”

“Oh, God,” I hear from Julia behind me between sobs. “Ivan, stop. Don't.”

“Please,” begs Brand. “Please.”

“On your knees. Now.”

“I—look—”

I put the tip of the gun to his knee.

“Three, two—”

“Okay! Okay!” he says, jumping from the chair.

He does as I order.

Now I put the point of the gun to his temple.