“More times than I care to admit,” I say.
Ed smiles, nodding, then all at once he goes solemn. “It was pretty scary today, wasn’t it?”
I nod.
“I spoke personally to Detective Baniels.”
Huh, I think. The dude’s name really is Baniels.
“He explained what happened,” Ed says, “and he explained what you claim happened. That someone pushed you.”
I start to defend myself, thinking that if anyone in the world will believe me, it’s Ed, but he holds up a hand again.
“Right now, how you ended up falling off that platform isn’t what’s important. What’s important is why you were there in the first place.”
“Someone jacked my wheels.”
“Yes,” Ed says slowly, something changing in his eyes, “we’ll come back to that shortly. For now, from what I understand, you called Reggie about your problem.”
“That’s right.”
“And you asked Reggie to call Bachman Payne and explain you would be late.”
“Yes.”
“And then”-Ed shoots Hank a glare-“your supervisor told you to … ‘start running,’ as I understand it.”
I nod again, forcing myself to not even glance at Hank.
“So in theory, if someone had called Bachman Payne and explained you were running late, you would never have been in that subway station.”
“Sir”-Hank leans forward, his voice unsteady-“did I tell John to start running? Yes. But that doesn’t mean I told him to take the train. It’s purely coincidental that-”
“The point here,” Ed says, “is that Bachman Payne was not contacted about their package running late. The point, too, is the package is now gone. So is John’s manifest, which means we can’t account for any of his previous runs today, which means we don’t get paid. And all of that adds up to being one massive mess.”
Nobody says anything. In fact, I realize Reggie hasn’t spoken a word this entire time.
Ed says, “John, is there anything you want to tell us?”
“Like what?”
“Like why you were in that train station.”
“I told you. Someone jacked my wheels.”
“Yes, and now we’re back to that.” He pushes away from the table, stands, and walks to the door. “How did you get here?”
“Taxi. When Hank called me, he told me to get in the first taxi I saw and come straight here.”
“So you left your bike behind.”
I nod slowly, not sure where he’s taking this.
“Tito finished his runs early today,” Ed says, his hand on the doorknob. “He finished up right when you called. So while you were on your way back here, I had him go down to retrieve your bike. Figured after everything you had been through, we would save you the time and hassle. But then when he got there, he called and told me he found something quite … odd.”
Ed opens the door, snaps his fingers, and steps back. For a moment nothing happens, and then Tito appears, decked out in his usual shorts and shirt, rolling a bike into the room.
“How …” I start to say, but that’s it. I have no words. I rise, slowly, and approach the bike-my bike. It has the same wear and tear that it did when I saw it last. It has the same worn tires. Everything about it is the same, except it’s impossible that it’s here right now, like this, complete.
“So, John,” Ed says, his gaze steady with mine, “I’m going to ask you one more time. Why were you in the train station?”
eight
Typically after work Ashley took the train downtown to her apartment in Greenwich Village, but tonight she took the F train up to Lexington Avenue, got onto the 5, and rode that up to 96th Street, walked two blocks, nodded to Brock, the doorman, who smiled and said he hadn’t seen her in a while and hoped she was doing well, and took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor where her mother was already waiting for her.
“Ashley”-her mother opened her arms for an embrace-“what a pleasant surprise.”
Ashley hugged her mother and kissed her cheek. “I didn’t expect you to be the welcoming committee.”
“Brock called and said you were headed up. I was worried something might be wrong. Is something wrong?”
Ashley followed her mother into the apartment. “No, not at all. It’s just … well, it’s been a long day. I wanted to see you and Daddy.”
Her mother smiled. “That’s so sweet.”
The apartment was as immaculate as it always was. She met with her parents once every two weeks, if not more, usually for Sunday brunch. She hadn’t been to the apartment in a long time, and she missed the plush and ornate decorations, the expensive furniture, and, more than anything, the view. She walked up to a patio window, one that looked out over Central Park.
Her father’s reflection filled the glass. “Sweetie, what are you doing here?”
She turned, smiling, and embraced him. “Hi, Daddy.”
Her mother was headed toward the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Just an ice water would be fine.”
Her father stood next to her, facing the park. “You always loved this view, didn’t you?”
“It’s one of my favorites in the city. Especially around this time of year, when the leaves start to change.”
“When you were a girl you’d go out on the patio with a book and read for hours.”
She smiled. “During the summer, it was a great place to tan.”
“Even better than the place on Martha’s Vineyard?”
She gave it a moment’s thought. “It’s tough to decide which was better.” She saw something in his eyes and said, “What is it?”
“We might be selling the house.”
“Why?”
“We hardly ever go up there anymore. The place is empty most of the year, so it seems foolish to keep it.”
She wondered if that was the real reason, whether the decision was more financial than anything else, but decided not to bring it up.
“So what is it?” her father asked.
“What is what?”
“Ashley, you know your mother and I always love seeing you, and while we’d love for you to visit more, it’s Monday evening, and you almost never visit during the week. Something’s bothering you. What is it?”
For an instant she considered telling him about her meeting earlier today. How Tom had insinuated that the only reason she had gotten the job was because of her father. Yes, it was true, her father was a powerful media mogul-at least in terms of print media-and yes, it was true, he had been a big factor in her getting the job at the Post. But she had proven herself since then, hadn’t she? Yes, goddamn it, she had, and Tom and Eric knew it, too.
Then again, her attitude during the meeting hadn’t been quite professional. Ashley knew it. Tom and Eric certainly knew it. If anything, she had embarrassed herself, and that was the last thing she wanted to tell her father.
“I had lunch with a friend of mine today.”
“Yes?” Her father motioned her over to the couches and chairs to have a seat. “Which friend is this?”
Ashley was about to mention Melissa’s name but thought twice. She knew her father followed the news closely. If he knew his daughter had lunch with ADA Baxter, he might ask about the Carrozza case, and it would feel like she was back at work.
“Just a friend. I don’t think you’d recognize the name.”
“Well, what’s new with this friend of yours?”
“Her father just died.”
Her mother, a glass of ice water in one hand, a wine glass filled with white wine in the other hand, entered the room. “Oh dear, that’s awful.”
Ashley took the water from her mother, placed it on the silver coaster on the coffee table. “We didn’t talk much about what happened. She basically said she had gone to the funeral over the weekend. But when I got back to work, curiosity took over and I looked online. Turns out he … killed himself.”