“Why don’t you go ahead of me?” the doctor suggested. “You don’t want to waste your entire afternoon here.”
“Oh, no, no. That’s all right.”
“Please, I insist. I’m in no rush.” He stepped aside so she could move up.
“Such a gentleman,” she said, clutching her purse. “But surely you have to get back to the hospital?”
“You’re very kind to think of it, but no. I’m only involved in research.”
“Research whereabouts?”
“Over at Rockefeller.”
“Oh, my, you must be a brilliant man. That’s very prestigious.”
“We have our victories now and again,” Dr. Pfeffernan allowed with a small smile. “Failures, unfortunately, are more common.”
“And what are you researching?”
“The old enemy, I’m afraid.”
“Cancer?”
“And we’ll conquer it,” Dr. Pfeffernan swore, raising a palm above his head. “Hand to God. Someday, I swear, we’re going to wipe it out.”
“Oh, I hope so. My husband died of colorectal seven years ago. Irv Rosen? He was a pediatrician in a family practice, I don’t suppose you ever met him.”
“I never had the pleasure. I believe in a few more years we may be able to save people like your husband.”
“Oh, you’re just like him. He was totally dedicated, never wanted to retire, and always hoped for the best, even though some of his cases were heartbreaking.”
“Pediatrics, yes. Such tsoris.” Dr. Pfeffernan placed a hand over his heart. “You see some real tragedies there.”
Mrs. Rosen unsnapped her purse, pulled out a handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes. “Well, Doctor. With people like you on the job, maybe someday there’ll be a lot fewer of those tragedies.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear, Mrs. Rosen. I think the teller’s ready for you.”
“Well, it’s been a pleasure, Dr. Pfeffernan, you have a good day now. And good luck on your quest!”
When Max got to the counter, he met the inquiring gaze of a young black woman on the other side of the bulletproof glass.
“I need to open my safety deposit box,” he said, handing her a piece of Pfeffernan ID. “Can’t go anywhere without a passport these days.”
“Oh, you didn’t need to wait in line for that, Doctor. You could have just got one of the managers to assist you. Wait there, I’ll be right back.”
She returned a moment later with another black woman. She wore a red dress and large gold earrings that gleamed against her skin.
“This is Miss Leary,” the teller said. “She can help you.”
“Dr. Pfeffernan, you need to open your safety deposit box?”
“That’s right. I rented it just a week or two ago.”
“Come with me.” She handed back his identification.
He followed her through a door into the back. A security guard was seated just inside.
Miss Leary showed him into the safety deposit room and inserted her key into the drawer. Max turned his key in the lock, pulled out the drawer, and set it on a table.
“There you go, Doctor. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
He pulled open the drawer and removed a snub-nosed automatic, pointing it at her.
“Don’t be alarmed, my dear, but yes, I’m afraid there is.”
The coffee shop was filling up. A man sitting next to Owen was explaining to his seven-year-old daughter what same-sex marriage meant.
“Well, you see, Megan, some girls like girls, so they marry girls. And some boys like boys, so they marry boys.”
Owen picked up his cellphone from the counter and dialed home. No answer. He tried Max’s mobile, but it switched him over immediately to voice mail. He didn’t leave a message.
He was pulling out some change to pay his check when someone said, “Hey, turn the sound up. Where’s that happening?”
The TV screen showed the front of a Chase bank. The banner said LIVE: Upper East Side.
“What’s going on, Daddy?”
“Someone’s robbing a bank,” the man said.
“Why?”
“Because he wants their money.”
“Will they give it to him?”
“If they do, he’ll have to give it back. It belongs to other people.”
According to the reporter on the scene, the robbery had begun barely twenty minutes ago, but the bank was already surrounded by police. A sweep of the camera showed snipers on the corners of buildings across the street. Helicopters hovered overhead. The amazing thing, the reporter said, was that the robber was a senior citizen, apparently a doctor, who was holding a woman employee hostage.
“Hey, don’t you want your change?” the counterman called out, but Owen was gone.
Lieutenant Nat Saperstein was hoping the hostage negotiation guys would get there soon, but word was they were hung up on the FDR. In the meantime it was his show, until such time as the SWAT team should get the go-ahead to take over. He had snipers on the roofs and an offensive football team of beefy guys blocking the only other exit. There was no way this scumbag was getting away, though why a doctor in his seventies or eighties suddenly gets it into his head to rob a bank, well, you have to wonder.
“Loo, we got a possible lever here.”
Saperstein put down his binoculars and turned to see a uniform holding on to the arm of a young man, teenager really.
“Kid says the guy inside is his father.”
“Oh yeah? You got some ID?”
“He’s actually my uncle, but he adopted me. He’s been losing it lately. He was talking about robbing a bank, but I never thought he was serious.”
“Like I said, got some ID?”
Owen pulled out his wallet and showed him his driver’s licence. “Please don’t shoot him,” he said. “He’s not going to hurt anybody.”
Saperstein looked from the licence photo to Owen and back again. “Maxwell? Good news, kid. It ain’t your uncle in there.”
“I’m telling you, it’s him. I saw him on TV, through the front window when he was closing the blinds. He’s not using his real name. He was going to make it something Jewish. He’s always wanted to play a Jew.”
“What are you, Ku Klux Klan? ‘Play a Jew.’ You think robbing banks is playing a Jew? Get this asshole outta here.”
The uniform made a move to grab Owen again.
“Pfeffernan! Dr. Pfeffernan-that was the name he was gonna use.”
The lieutenant’s face changed now. He gestured at the uniform to let go of the kid. “Okay, son, you have my attention. Tell me more.”
“His name is Magnus Maxwell-Max. He’s British. A former actor. He likes to play different roles. He said he wanted to do an educated Jewish New Yorker, a doctor.”
Saperstein looked him over. The kid looked sincere, and sincerely scared.
Owen went through his wallet and found an old photo of him and Max together at Niagara Falls. “This is him.”
Saperstein looked at the photo, raised his eyebrows.
“He looks pretty different, kid.”
“That’s his theatrical training. He loves wigs and makeup, the whole deal. If you let me talk to him, I’m sure I can get him to come out.”
“You’re welcome to try.” He keyed in a number on his cellphone and handed it to Owen.
An American voice answered, a New York voice. “You’re trying my patience here, Lieutenant. How many times do I have to tell you: move your men back.”
“Max,” Owen said into the phone, “it’s me. Owen. You have to give this up. You have to quit while you’re ahead.”
“I’m sorry, young man. You must have the wrong number.” There was a click.
“He hung up on me,” Owen said, handing the phone back.
“That’s okay, kid, you did your best. Negotiation team’ll be here in a-Hey, wait a second!”
Owen took off and ran straight through the crime scene tape. He was in the cordoned-off area, trying not to think of the snipers positioned above him. The front door was open; he was able to walk right in.
“Owen, me lad. What brings you here?”
The actual sight of Owen shook Max into dropping the American accent. He was in his surgical scrubs, seated in one of two executive chairs that had been pulled from offices. The other was occupied by a black woman with big gold earrings. A telephone on a long extension cord was on the floor between them.