Janet. Got a little situation here. Need you to radio the Riverhead station.”
He went on with a string of code numbers and a description of the neighborhood and the present dispersal of Butch’s crew. Appolonia was now crying, in a steady, forceful way, full and unrestrained. Belinda stroked her arm and spoke to her in soothing tones, telling her everything would be all right, that she would take care of her, that she would not let anything bad happen to her, ignoring the fact that something very bad just had.
“Too elegant to pass up, wasn’t it,” I said to Butch. “The chance to kill two birds with one stone. Jonathan and Osvaldo.”
Butch grinned at me.
“The man was sleeping with my daughter. Starting when she was twelve years old. She refused to testify at the trial. She said it was our fault for letting him in our house. Maybe the hearing was too much for her, I don’t know. The worst betrayal imaginable and I could do nothing about it.”
“He didn’t know that,” I said. “And neither did the DA. The trial was still on. You told Osvaldo you were ready to work out a deal, but he had to meet you. Alone. The arrangements were wacky, but not to Osvaldo. That’s just the way you did things. Everything’s performance art. He was given Jonathan’s Lexus and told to drive over to the Windsong parking lot, get out of the car and play with the dog—you wanted to make sure there were witnesses. And to wait for a call. On the cell phone that came with the car, the obvious way to trigger the firebomb. Only you or someone else was stupid enough to load the bomb that came after with about five times the necessary C-4. Or maybe not so stupid. The fire might not have burned him up enough to destroy his DNA. He had to be vaporized.”
As I spoke I started to lose Butch’s attention. He was watching Appolonia, his eyes filled with their usual gleam of brilliant curiosity.
Sullivan finished his call and clicked the phone shut.
“It’s gonna take a few minutes for backup to get here. What did you tell your boys to do?” he asked Butch.
“To improvise, of course. We’re famous for improv”
“They armed?” Sullivan asked. “They supposed to bust in here if you don’t give them a high sign?”
“I should tell you everything? Please, some imagination.”
Sullivan leaned down and pulled Butch to his feet.
“Grab a lamp cord,” he said to me.
He used it to tie Butch’s hands behind his back. Then shoved him back down on the couch. He took my spot at the window, delicately pulling back a sliver of curtain. I dragged an ottoman over next to Butch and sat down.
“It was getting too hot to sustain, wasn’t it?” I asked him. “You’d finally screwed up by losing your temper at Joyce Whithers after she insulted you at her restaurant. The subtle mockery of the Schnauzer painting wasn’t enough. You had to screw her in the markets. Just like you did to Ivor Fleming when he cheated you and dared suggest you alter your paintings. Joyce wasn’t as easy a mark. She went ballistic, threatened a lawsuit. Your phony gig could never withstand that kind of legal scrutiny. And she knew Fleming. They’d surely compare notes. And far worse than any of that, she knew Appolonia. It was time to bail. But in a way so dramatic all the attention would be on the perpetrators of the crime, away from the victim.”
“I love you, darling,” he said to Appolonia, in the same soothing voice he’d used before. “I always did. You know I made you happy”
“While she made you rich.”
I lowered my voice, hoping she wouldn’t hear me from across the room, but I couldn’t stop myself from saying what I said.
“What a godsend. A wealthy, needy, orphaned agoraphobic. You had the prescience to introduce yourself as your old alter ego. Things flowed nicely from there. You told her you were at the Harvard B School. Even took a few courses to beef up your story. Married her and moved her down here from Boston, isolating her from her old friends, while you continued your life as an artistic impresario, complete with entourage. Got Gabe involved to help keep an eye on her when you couldn’t be around. You had a whole team dedicated to sustaining the illusion. At least Charles and Edgar, in on it from the beginning. And why not? You literally owned the goose that laid the golden egg, and there were plenty of eggs to go around.”
“I took splendid care of you, darling,” said Butch to Appolonia. “You’re richer than ever.”
If that was meant to make her feel better, it didn’t work. Her sobs deepened, causing Belinda to almost climb into the chair with her as she gathered a tighter hold. I made him look back at me.
“You did. And yourself as well. And your buddies. Pretty good investment manager for an artist,” I said. “Or is it the other way around? Do you even know anymore?”
“There’s no art in failure. If I were to become you, I’d be the most successful Sam Acquillo that could ever be. I’d be the eagle you wish you were. Flying high above the earth, seeing all below with perfect clarity.”
Before I could grapple with that image I had a new thought.
“What about Dione? She had to know, too. You met her after you came back to Long Island. Sold her on the idea that Jonathan and his life was the greatest work of performance art in history. Did she know you fricasseed the Italian?”
He stared at me, not ready to give that up.
“Of course she did,” I said. “Might’ve been her idea.”
“You’re welcome to burn in hell yourself,
“I don’t think that’s what Appolonia’s Jonathan would have said.”
Sullivan grunted.
“Hey Sam. I’ve got some movement out there.”
I stood up next to him and peeked out the seam in the curtains. Charles had moved away from the truck and was standing out on the lawn, directly in front of the door. His arms were folded, but he was frowning.
“We should make a move while we can still surprise these guys,” said Sullivan.
He told me what he had in mind. I pulled Butch up on his feet, collected the back of his collar in my right hand and gripped his elbow with my left. I shook him a little so he’d register the fact that he couldn’t break free.
“For what it’s worth,” I told him, “I really liked your paintings, the ones at Ivor’s.”
“I’ve renamed them
“How about
I pushed him into the foyer and waited until Sullivan could reach around us and open the front door. As the door swung into the foyer I walked Butch out onto the stoop. Sullivan came right up behind us and rested his arm on Eldridge’s shoulder, pointing the revolver at Charles, and then Edgar, then back again.
“On your bellies,” he yelled. “First guy to take a step this way takes a bullet.”
Neither moved. They stood and stared, incomprehension and indecision playing across their faces. Time slowed and the world stood motionless but for Sullivan’s arm, pivoting between the two men, now looking at each other, trying to hear each other’s thoughts.
Butch started to quietly hum
“He isn’t worth it,” I said to them, as calmly as I could. “Not anymore.”
“Last chance,” yelled Sullivan. “Do it.”
And they did. Charles first, then Edgar, dropping down to their hands and knees, then lying face down on the ground, arms and legs spread. I did the old schoolyard trick of unlocking Eldridge’s knees from behind, causing him to crumple to a kneeling position, from where I shoved him forward onto his face, hitting the ground hard enough to force out a grunt. I held him there until we saw bright strobe lights reflected off the neighboring houses from a small fleet of patrol cars silently descending on and forever altering Jonathan and Appolonia’s cherished sanctuary.
“You wanted to explore a giant finger up the ass,” I said to him, taking my knee off his back as I stood up to make way for the Riverhead cops. “I think you’ll be getting your wish.”
I went back into the house. Belinda was sitting on the arm of the high-backed chair, cradling Appolonia and stroking her jet-black hair. I expected to be laid waste by the older woman’s expression, but she only looked stricken by grief and uncertainty.
