Unknown Remains (10 page)

EIGHTEEN

When it was dark, Jack walked out of the hotel, hailed a cab, and took it to the Village. There was an alley behind the building where Vicki lived. He moved past the sushi restaurant and heard voices and the loud clamor in the kitchen. The rear door to the apartment building was locked. He looked up five stories, lights from apartments illuminating the alley.

He climbed onto a dumpster, grabbed the bottom rung of the fire escape, and pulled it down. He went up to the second floor and moved along the building on the metal walkway to Vicki's apartment, looked in the window at the tiny kitchen, and saw Vick, her back to him, pouring a glass of wine. He stared at her dark hair hanging over her shoulders and at the hard roundness of her ass in tight jeans, taking his time, enjoying the moment. He didn't think he'd ever see her again. She turned, gripping the neck of the bottle, opened the refrigerator, and put it in. He watched her, feeling his heart race.

And when he couldn't wait any longer, Jack tapped on the glass. Vicki came over, made a visor with her hand to block the light. She put her hand over her chest and stared at him. It felt like a long time before she turned the lock and lifted the window. He got down on his butt and shimmied through the opening feet first, and when he was standing in the room, she came to him and he held her, neither of them saying a word. He could feel the soft curve of her breasts and her heart beating.

After a time, Vicki put her hands on his shoulders and pressed her lips to his, but the kiss had no feeling, no emotion. Her eyes held on him. “They've been here. They're looking for you. I told them you went
down with the tower 'cause that's what I believed.” Vicki paused. “You said you had the money. Why don't you give it to them? Let's end it and get them out of our lives.” Vicki walked over, picked up her wineglass, and took a drink.

She was different than he'd ever seen her, distant, preoccupied, and now he couldn't help but wonder if she'd been in it for the money from the beginning.

“Were you really in debt? Or was the whole thing a performance?” She wouldn't look at him. “You were good, I'll tell you that. You had
me
convinced.” Jack felt like a fool. “Is that the way it was?”

Vicki looked at him and said, “No. I was in trouble and I still am. You disappeared, but the debt didn't. Jack, come on, where's the money?” She was frantic now.

There was a knock on the door. Vicki said, “Go in the bedroom and don't make a sound.”

“Who is it, you got someone new already?”

Jack stood in the dark, the bedroom door cracked open an inch or so. He didn't trust her and was glad he didn't mention the money.

Vicki was at the front door, looking through the peephole. She unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. A dark-haired guy in a suit came in and closed the door. What struck Jack as odd, he was wearing gloves. The guy asked Vicki something, and she shook her head. He punched her in the face, and she went down on the Oriental rug. The sudden unexpectedness of it stunned him. She struggled, getting up on all fours, and now she sat up unsteady, her back to the guy, legs bent under her. He pulled a silenced semiautomatic from his belt, aimed it at the back of Vicki's head, and shot her from a couple feet away, spraying the wall with blood and brain.

Jack shifted his weight and leaned against the door. It made contact with the jamb but didn't close all the way. The shooter glanced at the bedroom and started toward him. Jack pushed the door all the way and locked it. He was on the catwalk when he heard wood splinter and
saw the shooter come in the room waving the gun. The shooter fired two shots that punched holes in the glass.

Jack ran along the catwalk to the ladder, looked over his shoulder and saw the shooter climbing out the bedroom window, aiming the gun. Jack jumped to the fire escape ladder and started down, sliding with his shoes on the outside of the rails. He looked up from the alley floor as a shot pinged off the concrete next to him. The alley was dark. He ran in the shadow of the building wall, rounds hitting next to him, behind him, and over his head. He came to Bleecker Street, turned right, and saw a cab, signaled the driver and got in, picturing the gunshot that ended Vicki's life and feeling guilty he didn't do something. But what the hell could he have done?

The shooter didn't see his face, but could describe him. The Italians, he figured, had wanted to believe he walked away from the Trade Center, and now they would know for sure.

Jack went back to the hotel and sat in the bar, too revved up to sleep, couldn't get the image of Vicki out of his mind. He thought about going to the police, turning himself in, but what good would that do? He'd go to jail, and Vicki would still be dead.

“Maker's and soda,” Jack said when the bartender approached. Jack watched him make the drink and set it on the bar in front of him on a red cocktail napkin.

The bartender said, “Want to see a menu?”

Jack shook his head, took a sip, and tasted the heavy strength of bourbon. He pictured Vicki walking through Ulysses that evening about four months ago, every eye in the bar on her, as she stopped at his table.

“Looking for someone?” he had said.

“Not really.”

“What're you drinking?”

“Nothing.”

“What would you like?”

“A cosmo up.”

Jack signaled the waiter, ordered the cocktail for her and another whiskey for himself. He could see guys staring at her. “This how it usually is?”

“What do you mean?”

“All the attention you're getting.”

She didn't answer, put her shoulder bag on the table.

“I'm Jack.” He offered his hand and she shook it, surprising him by the strength of her grip with those long, beautiful fingers and red-painted nails.

“Vicki.”

“You a Teamster?”

“A pipe fitter, local 636.”

“I had a feeling. You have that look.” Jack finished his whiskey.

Vicki smiled. “My dad was.”

The waiter brought their drinks. Vicki picked hers up and clinked his glass.

“I'm an actress waiting to be discovered.”

“What have I seen you in?”

“The new Brooklyn Chevy Dealers spot. I'm in the showroom with my dog. I look at three different models, and then I'm standing next to the Malibu and the dog barks, and I go, ‘You like it boy?' And to the salesman I go, ‘That's the car for me.'” Vicki sipped her drink.

“You pick a car 'cause your dog likes it?”

“It's a TV commercial. It's supposed to be funny.” Vicki paused. “What about you, Mr. Serious? What do you do?”

Jack smiled. “I'm a registered financial representative, a stock broker.”

“No wonder you don't have a sense of humor.”

That's how it started.

From there they took a cab to McSorley's, Jack's favorite pub, and drank pints of Guinness. Jack wasn't used to a girl keeping up with him, matching him pint for pint. Vicki was easy to talk to and a lot of fun,
and she was a stunner. He wasn't looking for a girlfriend, wasn't planning to see her again. He was happily married.

Jack said he had to go home. He walked her outside. “Need a ride?”

“I only live a few blocks from here.”

“Nice meeting you.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

“You can do better than that, can't you?” Vicki put her arms around him and kissed him hard, slipping him her tongue, an electrical charge going through his body. “When I'm not appearing in commercials, I work nights at Balthazar, if you know where that is.”

Jack thought about Vicki the whole way back to Darien, and she was the first thing on his mind when he opened his eyes the next morning, staring at her phone number in marker on his palm, and then at his wife sleeping next to him. He told himself he wasn't going to see Vicki again, knowing what would happen, holding out for five days before he booked a dinner reservation in Vicki's section, nervous as he rode in the taxi from Wall Street to SoHo, feeling like a high school kid on his first date.

He arrived early, sat at the bar and ordered a flute of champagne, watching her moving through the dining room. Seeing things he had missed the first time: her hair tied in a ponytail accentuating high cheekbones and a slim, delicate neck, her high can and long legs in tight-fitting black slacks.

Jack waited till Vicki went in the kitchen before he made his move, walked to the hostess's stand, identified himself, and was escorted to a booth. His face was hidden behind the menu as Vicki approached. He brought the menu down and saw the look of surprise on her face.

“My name's Vicki,” she said. “I'll be your server.” Not showing even a hint of recognition.

“I should've called. I think your number's still on my hand.”

“What can I get you?”

“Bring two glasses of champagne and join me?”

She gave him a half smile now. “That'd go over well.”

“Meet me later. What time do you get off?”

“What do you want?”

“You.” They stared at each other for a few seconds. “Where do you live?”

She walked to the bar and came back with a glass of champagne, put it on the table, took a business card out of her apron, wrote an address on the back, and handed it to him. “I should be home by one.”

Jack was standing in front of her building on Sullivan Street, holding a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon in a paper bag, a Wall Street wino. The neighborhood was alive at twelve fifty, cars driving by and late-night revelers passing him on the sidewalk, the blur of lights, the smell of cigarettes, the sounds of the city around him, Vicki in his head, on his mind as she had been nonstop since he'd met her. Jack wondered why she'd had such an impact on him. He couldn't explain it. He'd had a few brief affairs over the years, but never felt anything close to this.

He stepped into the small vestibule and scanned the directory, saw Vicki's name, pushed the button, and heard her voice: “Who is it?” Her tone serious.

“It's Jack.”

She buzzed him in, and he walked up to the second floor, Vicki standing in the open doorway as he approached.

“I'm kind of grubby; I'm gonna take a shower, you mind waiting?”

He followed her into the apartment and closed the door. He put the champagne on a table, moved toward Vicki and took her in his arms and kissed her long and hard, Vicki giving it back to him with the same energy and eagerness, and when they finally paused he said, “I've been wanting to do that for five days.”

“Why'd you wait so long?”

“I'm married.”

“Then why're you here?”

“Why do you think?”

“You can't live without me, huh?”

“I can't stop thinking about you, I'll tell you that.”

“You seem like you know what you're doing. You've done this before, haven't you?”

Jack didn't say anything.

“How long have you been married?”

“Twelve years.”

“Are you happy?”

He wasn't happy, but he wasn't unhappy. They'd settled into a steady routine. It wasn't boring, but it wasn't exciting either.

“What're you doing here? Go home to your wife.”

“Is that what you want?”

“No, I want you to stay, but I'm being selfish. I've been thinking about you too. I was hoping you'd call or show up, and here you are.” Vicki paused. “Do me a favor. Think about what you're doing. I'm gonna go take a shower. If you're not here when I get out, I'll understand.”

Jack was in her bed when the bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam, and Vicki appeared, entering the room, untying the sash, pulling the robe apart and letting it slide off her shoulders. Jack watched her naked body moving toward him, breasts bigger than he would've guessed, bouncing, a small trimmed landing strip of dark hair between her legs, the only contrast to her olive skin.

He slid over and she got in next to him, their bodies coming together, Jack feeling her warmth, trying to slow things down, take his time, but it didn't happen that way.

Jack woke early and took a taxi back to Darien, in a daze from lack of sleep, reliving the night, feeling guilty as he walked in the house and up to the bedroom and saw Diane asleep on her side of the bed. He showered, dressed, and went downstairs and made coffee. Sat at the counter, staring out the window at the backyard, picturing Vicki slipping out of the robe, coming to the bed and getting in next to him.

“What time did you get home?” Diane came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

“About thirty minutes ago.”

“I don't like sleeping alone.” She paused. “What's this? You cut yourself.”

He was so out of it he hadn't noticed. She pulled a Kleenex out of the box on the counter, turned on the faucet, got it wet and dabbed his cheek. “What'd you do last night?”

“Took clients out to dinner, Cipriani, and went back to Chuck's and fell asleep on the couch.”

“You must be exhausted.”

“And I might have to do it again tonight.”

“You poor guy. How about some breakfast?”

“I'll get something on the train.” Jack sipped his coffee. “I've got a meeting in L.A. next week”—which was true—“Wednesday through Friday.”

“All you do is work. Am I ever going to see you?” Diane grinned now. “Hey, I've got an idea, why don't I go with you? We could stay at the Beverly Hills Hotel, or somewhere in Santa Monica.”

“I'm not going to have any time. We're in strategy sessions all day, and long boring dinners at night. You know how it is,” he said, scheming, thinking about Vicki coming with him.

Jack took the train to Grand Central Station and a taxi back to the Village. It was eight twenty. Standing outside Vicki's apartment building, he called his office and talked to Mary.