Unknown Remains (3 page)

FOUR

Diane was about to open the front door, then stopped. She moved into the living room and looked out the big window at the front porch and saw a well-dressed, dark-skinned man she'd never seen before. He didn't look like a salesman; he looked rough. The bell rang again. After the grief counselor, she didn't want to see or talk to anyone else. The guy on the porch turned and glanced at the street, shuffled his feet, and looked at his watch. Now he came down the steps and stood on the lawn in front of the living room window. Diane went down on her knees, ducking under the level of the couch. She felt foolish hiding in her own house, but it was too late now.

She waited, hoping he'd leave, and heard pounding on the side door. Maybe there were two of them. She peeked over the back of the couch and didn't see him, got up and moved into the kitchen and heard him shake the door handle, then bang on the door. Diane was rattled now. Who was this lunatic, and what did he want?

She thought about calling the police. And say what? There's a stranger knocking on my door? He was aggressive, but he hadn't done anything. Now he was on the driveway, moving toward the kitchen windows and she retreated down the back stairs halfway to the basement and froze. Her cell phone rang. She reached in her pocket and turned it off.

Diane waited a couple minutes, went up the stairs, and saw him walk by the side door. She followed him through the house and saw him move past the den and living room windows, saw him walk down the street, and her heart stopped pounding.

It occurred to her that for the first time in a week, she hadn't thought about Jack. This guy, whoever he was, had taken her mind off 9/11 for a few minutes, made her realize this was what she was going to have to do, or she'd go out of her mind.

Diane sat at the kitchen table, shuffling through the bills she'd been putting off paying. A payment of $785 was due on the BMW Jack was leasing. Diane had tried to talk him into a Volkswagen or a Toyota, but he was all about image. “How can I look successful driving a second-rate car?” The mortgage was $4,900 a month for a house that was way more than they needed. When she'd challenged Jack—“Are you kidding? Why do we need five thousand square feet?”—Jack had locked her in his gaze and said, “We're gonna have a family, aren't we? We've gotta have room for all the kids.”

Then there was the monthly bill from Darien Country Club, where they seldom went, but the average charges were $2,500 a month. What really surprised her, though, was the accumulated debt on two Visa cards and a MasterCard totaling more than $87,000. She studied the current list of charges on the Visas: two business-class flights, New York–London, three nights at Claridge's, in addition to meals at Rules and Le Gavroche. On the MasterCard were two business-class flights, London–Rome, and a suite at the Hassler.

When she and Jack fought, it was always about money. He would tell her that she spent too much and had to cut back, or get a job and contribute.

Now she went online and looked at the balance of their joint checking and savings account, thinking they had at least $50,000. Jack said it was their safety net if he ever lost his job. She studied the transactions from the previous month, checks written and Visa card activity, the portfolio summary showing a balance of $5,415.12. She was surprised to see that Jack had withdrawn $45,000 the last week of August. Why would he need that much money? He had always paid the bills, and she trusted him. What else didn't she know?

Diane felt dumb, naive. How could she not have known what was going on? The grief counselor said Jack could see and hear her. She glanced up at the ceiling. “Jack, what'd you do with the money?”

A couple nights a week, he was out with clients on a company expense account. They'd have dinner at Le Bernardin, Le Cirque, or Jean-Georges. He'd come home late, if he came home at all, smelling of cigars and booze. Some nights he'd stay at a hotel in the city, walk in the door before Diane was awake, shower, change, and go back to Manhattan. She never worried about him, never thought he was doing anything crazy. But now, thinking about all the money that had disappeared, maybe he had been gambling.

Diane couldn't remember Jack ever being interested in cards. He didn't bet on horses or sporting events that she knew of. Unless this was something else she'd missed. Then again, maybe she was judging him unfairly. Maybe he needed the money for something else. “What'd you spend it on, Jack?”

She heard the side door close. “Who're you talking to?” Connie May said, coming into the kitchen.

“Myself.”

Connie hugged her, clung to her. Diane felt her friend's body heave as she let go, crying, and they held each other like that for a while until Diane said, “Let's have a drink. What do you want?”

“What're you going to have?”

“A martini.”

“Really? What the hell, I'll have one too.”

Diane filled a cocktail shaker with ice and vodka and added a splash of vermouth. She put the top on and shook it till her arm was tired and the shaker had a layer of ice on the outside, almost too cold to touch. She poured the cold mixture into two martini glasses, submerged an olive in each, and handed a glass to Connie. “You're not supposed to get drunk, I read, when you're grieving. You're supposed to feel the brunt of the pain. You're not supposed to dilute it with alcohol.”

“Who said that?”

“I don't remember.”

“The hell with it; I want to get drunk and not feel anything.”

Diane held her glass up and clinked Connie's. “To us. We're gonna get through this. We're gonna be okay.” She sipped her martini, tasting the cold vodka and feeling the burn in her throat as she swallowed.

Connie said, “What's Sterns and Morrison doing to compensate us?”

“Are they going to do something? I have no idea.”

“That's what I heard at the last meeting. You do have savings, don't you? And Jack did have life insurance, I hope.”

“I'm not worried; I'm okay. But a little extra wouldn't hurt.” Jack did have a $1 million term life insurance policy. She had called Howard Zamler, their agent, to make sure.

“I got Jeff's paycheck today. That helped. But I don't know how long they'll keep sending them.”

“I didn't get Jack's.”

“You should call.” She paused. “I'm going to go back to work. I've got to do something, keep busy.”

Connie was thirty-eight, tall and blonde, a former art director who'd taken a leave of absence when she got pregnant years before, had two kids and never went back.

Diane drained the martini, and the vodka-soaked olive rolled in her mouth. She chewed it and said, “Another one?” She could feel the euphoric buzz and wanted to keep it going.

“Are you kidding? I have to drive home. I have to make dinner.”

“What're you having?”

“Chicken tenders and French fries. You're welcome to join us.”

“I'm gonna have another martini and get in the tub.”

“I'll see you in the morning,” Connie said. “Anything I can do for you before the funeral?”

FIVE

On the morning of the twenty-first, Cobb was paging through the
Times
, breathing in a mixture of fresh coffee and Ruben's cologne. It was raining, and there was a chill in the air. He turned on the radio, heard Toby Keith singing:

       
I'm not talkin bout hooking up and hanging out
.

       
I'm just talkin bout tonight
.

He turned it off when he saw a black Cadillac drive up and park in McCann's driveway. Diane McCann came out dressed in black, carrying an umbrella, and got into the Caddy. Cobb folded the newspaper and followed Mrs. McCann to St. Mary's Church in Norwalk. This was the fourth funeral they'd followed her to since 9/11.

He sat in the back of the packed church during the service, no idea who'd died until the priest said, “Our brother Jack McCann has been taken from us.” After the mass, a guy walked up to the podium and said, “For those of you who don't know me, I'm Joe Sculley. And let me say: we lost a good one. I met Jack in first grade. He came up to me on the playground and said, ‘A lot of us think you look like an albino.' And we've been friends ever since.” He paused, took a breath. “Jack was an American classic, which is to say he was an original. I've never met anyone like him. I doubt any of you have, either. If you were Jack McCann's friend—and by the number of people here today, there are a lot of us—he would do anything for you. Jack loved his family, his mother, his sister, and especially his wife Diane, who he
referred to as his soulmate. Jack loved life. He grabbed it and squeezed everything he could get out of it.”

Cobb decided he'd heard enough bullshit, slid out of the pew, walked out of the church, and got in the car. Ruben gave him a blank-faced stare. “What you doing in there? Know how long I been out here?”

“I give up, how long?”

Ruben kept the hard stare on him.

“You follow the subject till you find out something that might be helpful. That's the job, waiting and watching. What's this, your first day? Maybe you're in the wrong line of work.”

Ruben shrugged. “What you think I should be doing?”

Cobb pictured him in a green uniform with his name on the shirt, cutting grass. “What do you know how to do?”

“You mean like boxing?”

Jesus, there was hope for Ruben after all. “Exactly. You know the business. You become a trainer, a manager, maybe even a promoter.”

“You know, that's not a bad idea.”

Cobb clamped his jaws together so he wouldn't smile. He looked over, saw people coming out of the church now. Diane McCann appeared a few minutes later and got in the limo.

He followed the funeral procession going about eighteen miles an hour, forty-two cars, he counted them, to the cemetery. They sat in the car fifty yards from the burial site, watching a big group, everyone dressed in black, holding umbrellas up against a light rain.

Cobb checked out the faces of the mourners with binoculars. Anyone not crying looked like they were about to.

Ruben said, “All these people die when the building go down, right? But no bodies.”

“Is there a question there somewhere?”

“What's in the coffin?”

“Personal things. Guy played hockey, they put in his stick and skates and photographs of his team and maybe shots of the man's wife
and kids. Guy was a golfer, they put in his clubs. Things that have a sentimental attachment. You know, like he's playing golf, a championship course up in heaven.”

“No jodas! You believe it?”

“Doesn't matter what I believe.”

“I was the woman, I sell the golf clubs.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What would you do?”

“I was dead, it wouldn't make any difference, would it?”

It was raining harder now, drops pelting and rolling down the windshield. Cobb couldn't see anything.

“Why don't you put the wipers on?”

“I don't want to call attention to us. People are gonna see a car with the wipers on and two guys sitting in it.”

“So what?”

“How can we follow the woman if she recognizes the car?”

Ruben didn't say anything. He probably couldn't think of a response, and that was okay. Cobb was tired of making small talk with this idiot.

Now a bagpiper started to play. Cobb brought the side window down a couple inches. He saw Diane McCann raise her umbrella over the bagpiper's head till he finished playing.

After the casket had been lowered, the mourners dispersed, running to their cars. Cobb followed Diane McCann in the limo to the Darien Country Club, pulling over across Mansfield Road, rain pounding the roof and windshield, watching the limo pull in.

Diane was drained
,
exhausted. The limo dropped her off. She went in the side door, hung the umbrella on a hook in the closet, took off the wet raincoat, and hung it in the laundry room. She moved into the kitchen, opened the liquor cabinet, brought out a bottle of port, and poured a couple inches into a short-stemmed glass. She sipped the port and
checked her messages. Friends offering their condolences, and a mortuary company offering specials on gravestones, markers, and monuments. It was unbelievably bad taste.

Glancing toward the dark breakfast room, Diane thought she saw someone sitting at the table. It startled her. There was a man there. She didn't feel the glass slide out of her hand, but heard it shatter on the counter, a dark red stream running over the side of the granite onto the floor. She fumbled, opened a drawer, and brought out a cook's knife.

“I not going to hurt you.” His accent sounded Spanish.

She picked up the phone. “I'm going to call the police.”

“Is not necessary. I have something to show you. That's all.” He was up now moving toward her, and she recognized him as the dark-skinned man who had come by yesterday. He walked into the kitchen, unfolding a piece of paper, stood on the other side of the island counter, and slid the paper to her.

“What is this?”

“Have a look.”

He was well-dressed but scary looking, with ridges of scar tissue around his cheekbones and eyes, and diamond studs in his big ears. She studied the paper. It was a copy of a contract. It said Jack had borrowed $750,000 from a company called San Marino Equity. She had never heard of it. There were terms and conditions in small print she couldn't read even with her readers. “My husband is dead. I don't know what you're trying to pull. This has nothing to do with me.”

“This your signature. You guarantee to pay back the debt.”

“I never signed this.” She looked at the signature. It wasn't hers; it wasn't even close.

“You owe seven hundred fifty grand.”

“I don't owe you anything. Get out. If I see you again, I'm calling the police.” Diane had been afraid, scared to death. Now she was angry, thinking this clown had broken into her house and was trying to scam her.

“Listen,” he said, “this is not gonna go away. You owe this money and have to pay it back. We can start with the life insurance.”

“We're not starting with anything.”

“I see you again, uh?”

He left the paper on the counter, walked out of the kitchen, down the hall to the side door. Diane went after him and locked it and set the security alarm. They didn't use it when Jack was alive, but now she decided to keep it on.

Back in the kitchen, she could smell what he had left behind, an aura of bad cologne, her nose filled with it. She picked up the piece of paper on the counter. San Marino Equity, 121 Mulberry Street, New York, New York 10006. An address that was probably in Little Italy.

In spite of what she'd already discovered about Jack, this had to be a scam. There's no way he would've borrowed that much money. If anyone knew about it, she figured Sculley would. He'd been Jack's closest friend for as long as she had known him.

Another possibility: Jack was seeing someone, having an affair. Was this something else she had missed, not paying attention? There was a good-looking girl she had never seen before, early twenties, at the funeral reception. Diane didn't know her, so Jack must have.

She called Sculley and asked him if he was available for breakfast the next morning.