What’s more, he arranged it so he’d be the lead detective in the investigation. There was just one hitch. Delmonico thought they were alone in the alleyway when he pulled the trigger on the two detectives. He never saw an old Hasidic man who happened to be looking out a nearby tenement window. But the man in the window sure saw him.
Still, it seemed everyone thought Delmonico would get away with it – including most in the DA’s office. It was the word of a veteran detective against that of an elderly man with admittedly bad eyesight. Speculation had it that the only reason the case went forward was that a nervous mayor didn’t want to seem soft on police corruption, especially two cold-blooded murders.
But in the end, it was the Russians who proved even more nervous. A week before the start of the trial, Frank Delmonico was shot twice in the head at point-blank range. The gun used was a Makarov, a Russian-made 9 mm. Just in case that wasn’t enough of a “message,” there was something stuffed in Delmonico’s mouth. A big black rat.
But that rat wasn’t the real kicker.
At least from where I’m sitting.
Hoping to avoid the reporters and cameras camped outside his apartment in Queens, Delmonico had decided to check into a hotel. That’s where they found his body.
At the Fálcon.
There was even a photo of his body being carried out in a long black bag.
Chapter 89
I STAND UP from my computer, having had more than enough of this. I’m woozy and in a daze. If Frank Delmonico’s no longer alive, whom have I been talking to the past few days?
Impulsively, I reach into my pocket and pull out Delmonico’s card. I think back to when he handed it to me outside the hotel. I can picture it clearly.
Wait.
That’s it!
I rush to my darkroom and the pictures lining nearly every inch of wall space. I shot so many that morning outside the hotel. I covered every angle twice over. All the commotion. All the people. Police, paramedics – there’s no way he could’ve escaped my lens.
Grabbing my loupe, I begin to search. It’s my own desperate version of Where’s Waldo? I move left to right across every photo, looking for that gray suit, those unmistakable eyes. Where’s Delmonico?
I can’t find him in any of the pictures.
So what do I do? I start over. I go slower, inch by inch, top to bottom. The sweat from my face and arms is sticking to the photo paper. My head is throbbing; my eyes are killing me.
C’mon, where are you, Delmonico? I know you’re here somewhere.
But he isn’t.
Taking a giant step back, I breathe in deep and try to think. Dead or alive, real or imagined, what does Detective Frank Delmonico have to do with me? I’d never heard of him before, never seen him until that first time at the Fálcon. What does it mean that he wasn’t there when the four bodies were carried out but afterward he was Frankie-on-the-spot, investigating me? That’s something, but what does it mean?
Just then, I feel a pair of eyes on me and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Chapter 90
I TURN TO SEE my father staring down coldly from behind his thick glasses.
Next to the picture of him is the one of Dr. Magnumsen. They certainly have a connection with Delmonico. They’re dead. At least they’re supposed to be.
I study the image of my father on the streets of New York, his body such a startling contradiction: the square jaw versus the hunched shoulders; a strong man beaten down by an unfair world. My dad was a gifted carpenter, a volunteer fireman. Once, he rescued a little boy from a flooded ravine by tying a loop in his belt and hanging upside down from a bridge.
But being the town hero didn’t pay well, and when his carpentry jobs started to dry up during the recession of the eighties, money in our house got tight. Ironic, really. He helped to build so many homes but ultimately couldn’t afford to keep his own.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad had my mother been a little more understanding. She wasn’t, though. I remember the night at the dinner table when she called him a failure in life, right to his face.
That’s about when the drinking got out of control. But never in front of me. Never. I was his princess, his girl. No matter how bad things got, he always had a hug and a smile for me.
Right up until the end. Less than an hour before Dad shot himself in our dilapidated backyard shed, he held me in his arms and squeezed me tight. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered in my ear.
I never forgave him for that lie. I know that I should’ve felt sorry for him, but I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.
Now, after all these years, he shows up somehow on a street corner in Manhattan. If only he hadn’t run away that morning. I’d have given him the biggest hug and kiss, and whispered softly in his ear, “It’s okay, Dad. I understand.”
Chapter 91
I’M CRYING IN MY DARKROOM, the tears falling faster than I can wipe them away. I miss my dad. I miss a lot of things right now, but most of all my own sanity.
Could I be more of a mess?
It’s late, and I’ve given up on trying to reach Michael tonight. I’m exhausted and should get some sleep.
But knowing that the dream – and God knows what else – awaits me in the morning, I instead reach for the shots I snapped of Penley and Stephen in front of the hotel.
Talk about a great Exhibit A.
In fact, it’s enough to swing my mood. As I look at the first shot, I can’t help relishing the thought of Michael going for the jugular in divorce court. I’m so giddy – or is it punchy? – I actually start singing, “Penley and Stephen in NYC, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
But the feeling is short-lived.
I stare at Stephen’s transparent image – the exact same ghosting effect – and I surrender all faith in myself and in the real world as I experienced it before the last few days. I know I stood outside the Fálcon and watched those gurneys get wheeled to the curb, but I also know a pattern when I see one.
First Penley.
Then Michael.
Now Stephen.
One by one, the body bags are being accounted for, and I don’t have to be Einstein to do the math.
There’s one left.
Chapter 92
I COME OUT OF THE DARKROOM and notice there’s a message on my answering machine – just one – and I’m afraid to listen to it. No, I’m petrified to press the button and hear what somebody has to tell me.
What now?
Who could this be? Another call from Kristin Burns?
I get a cold bottle of water in the kitchen and gulp it right down. How did I get myself into this mess? How do I get out?
There has to be a way, but I can’t imagine what it might be. I’m supposed to be creative, aren’t I? So why can’t I begin to figure this puzzle out? Could anyone?
I can still see the red light flashing on my answering machine. It might be Michael, and maybe, maybe he’s okay now, back to normal.
Of course, it could also be Delmonico, calling from where, exactly? Do they have phones there, wherever dead people hang out these days?
I approach the infernal message machine and I’m starting to shake like a leaf. How insane is that? Given what’s happened to me? Not so crazy.
I stab the button on the machine.
I get myself ready to listen to whomever, about whatever.
I hear a voice I don’t know – a woman’s voice. Who’s this?
“Kristin… this is Leigh Abbott. I own the Abbott Show on Hudson Street, and I’m calling to tell you that we all love your stuff. Love it! Please give me a call at 212-555-6501. I would like to put your astounding work in the Abbott Show. Call me, Kristin: 212-555-6501. We are so impressed with your vision of New York.”
I press the button on the machine again.