Tell No One

“A courtesy call,” she mumbled.

“What?”

“They’re arresting your brother. We have an hour to surrender him to authorities.”

24

All I could think about was Washington Square Park. True, I wasn’t supposed to be there for another four hours. But emergencies notwithstanding, today was my day off. Free as a bird, as Lynyrd Skynyrd would sing—and this bird wanted to flock down to Washington Square Park.

I was on my way out of the clinic when my beeper once again sang its miserable song. I sighed and checked the number. It was Hester Crimstein’s cell phone. And it was coded for an emergency.

This couldn’t be good news.

For a moment or two, I debated not calling back—just continuing to flock—but what would be the point in that? I backpedaled to my examining room. The door was closed, and the red lever was slid into place. That meant another doctor was using the room.

I headed down the corridor, turned left, and found an empty room in the ob-gyn section of the clinic. I felt like a spy in enemy camp. The room gleamed with too much metal. Surrounded by stirrups and other devices that looked frighteningly medieval, I dialed the number.

Hester Crimstein did not bother with hello: “Beck, we got a big problem. Where are you?”

“I’m at the clinic. What’s going on?”

“Answer a question for me,” Hester Crimstein said. “When was the last time you saw Rebecca Schayes?”

My heart started doing a deep, slow thud. “Yesterday. Why?”

“And before that?”

“Eight years ago.”

Crimstein let loose a low curse.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Rebecca Schayes was murdered last night in her studio. Somebody shot her twice in the head.”

A plunging feeling, the one you get moments before you fall asleep. My legs wobbled. I landed with a thump on a stool. “Oh Christ …”

“Beck, listen to me. Listen closely.”

I remembered how Rebecca looked yesterday.

“Where were you last night?”

I pulled the phone away and sucked in some air. Dead. Rebecca was dead. Oddly I kept flashing to the sheen in her beautiful hair. I thought about her husband. I thought about what the nights would bring, lying in that bed, thinking about how that hair used to fan across the pillow.

“Beck?”

“Home,” I said. “I was home with Shauna.”

“And after that?”

“I took a walk.”

“Where?”

“Around.”

“Where around?”

I did not reply.

“Listen to me, Beck, okay? They found the murder weapon at your house.”

I heard the words, but their meaning was having trouble reaching the cerebrum. The room suddenly felt cramped. There were no windows. It was hard to breathe.

“Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” I said. Then, sort of understanding, I said, “That’s not possible.”

“Look, we don’t have time for that now. You’re about to be arrested. I spoke to the D.A. in charge. He’s a prick and a half, but he agreed to let you surrender.”

“Arrested?”

“Stay with me here, Beck.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s irrelevant right now. They’re going to arrest you. They’re going to arraign you. Then we’re going to get you bail. I’m on my way over to the clinic now. To pick you up. Sit tight. Don’t say anything to anyone, you hear me? Not to the cops, not to the feds, not to your new buddy in lockup. You understand?”

My gaze got snagged on the clock above the examining table. It was a few minutes after two. Washington Square. I thought about Washington Square. “I can’t be arrested, Hester.”

“It’ll be all right.”

“How long?” I said.

“How long what?”

“Until I get bail.”

“Can’t say for sure. I don’t think bail per se will be a problem. You have no record. You’re an upstanding member of the community with roots and ties. You’ll probably have to surrender your passport—”

“But how long?”

“How long until what, Beck? I don’t understand.”

“Until I get out.”

“Look, I’ll try to push them, okay? But even if they rush it—and I’m not saying they will—they still have to send your fingerprints to Albany. That’s the rule. If we’re lucky—I mean very lucky—we can get you arraigned by midnight.”

Midnight?

Fear wrapped itself around my chest like steel bands. Jail meant missing the meet at Washington Square Park. My connection with Elizabeth was so damn fragile, like strands of Venetian glass. If I’m not at Washington Square at five o’clock …

“No good,” I said.

“What?”

“You have to stall them, Hester. Have them arrest me tomorrow.”

“You’re kidding, right? Look, they’re probably there already, watching you.”

I leaned my head out the door and looked down the corridor. I could see only part of the reception desk from my angle, the corner near the right, but it was enough.

There were two cops, maybe more.

“Oh Christ,” I said, falling back into the room.

“Beck?”

“I can’t go to jail,” I said again. “Not today.”

“Don’t freak out on me here, Beck, okay? Just stay there. Don’t move, don’t talk, don’t do anything. Sit in your office and wait. I’m on my way.”

She hung up.

Rebecca was dead. They thought I killed her. Ridiculous, of course, but there had to be a connection. I visited her yesterday for the first time in eight years. That very night she ended up dead.

What the hell was going on here?

I opened the door and peeked my head out. The cops weren’t looking my way. I slid out and started down the corridor. There was a back emergency exit. I could sneak out that way. I could make my way down to Washington Square Park.

Was this for real? Was I really going to run away from the police?

I didn’t know. But when I reached the door, I risked a look behind me. One of the cops spotted me. He pointed and hurried toward me.

I pushed open the door and ran.

I couldn’t believe this. I was running from the police.

The exit door banged into a dark street directly behind the clinic. The street was unfamiliar to me. That might sound strange, but this neighborhood was not mine. I came, I worked, I left. I stayed locked inside a windowless environment, sickened by the lack of sunshine like some dour owl. One parallel block from where I worked and I was in totally alien territory.