Desperate Measures

Important people. During the Metro ride into the city, Pittman kept assessing what Burt had told him. The clack-clack-clack of the train on the rails became like a mantra and helped Pittman to focus his concentration. Important people.

Maybe Burt had been telling the truth. A week from today, the Chronicle would close its doors. There had to be all kinds of complicated arrangements to make. It was possible that the owner and the publisher and God knew who all were in Burt’s office discussing the direction the newspaper should take in its final days.

But wouldn’t people that important make Burt go to their office rather than want to meet in his?

Pittman reversed the direction of his thoughts and again suspected that Burt was angry at him.

In rush-hour traffic outside Grand Central Station, Pittman couldn’t find an empty cab, so he decided to use the subway. His intention had been to go to the Chronicle, but his watch now showed eight minutes after five. The sun was low behind skyscrapers. The air had turned cold, and Pittman’s damp clothes made him shiver again. Burt wouldn’t be at the office now anyway, he thought. He’d be on his way to the bar where he always went after work.

I’m not going to sit in that bar and have my teeth chatter all the time I’m trying to explain. What I need first are dry clothes.

Pittman got out of the subway at Union Square, still couldn’t find an empty cab, and walked all the way to his apartment on West Twelfth Street. The air was colder, the light paler as he hurried along. He unlocked the door to the vestibule of his building. Then he unlocked the farther door that allowed him past the mailboxes into the ground-floor corridor of the building itself.

As usual, the smell of cooking assailed him. Also as usual, the elevator wheezed and creaked, taking him to the third floor. As usual, too, the television was blaring in the apartment next to his. He shook his head in discouragement, unlocked the door, stepped in, shut and locked the door, and turned to discover a man sitting in his living room, reading a magazine.

5

Pittman’s heartbeat faltered. “What the…?”

The man set down the magazine. “Is your name Matthew Pittman?”

“What the hell do you think you’re…?”

The man was in his late thirties. Thin, he had short brown hair, a slender face, a sharp chin. He wore a plain gray suit and shoes with thick soles. “I’m with the police department.” He opened a wallet to show his badge and ID. He stood, his expression sour, as if he’d much sooner be doing something else. “Detective Mullen. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“How did you get in here?”

“I asked the super to let me in.”

Pittman felt pressure in his chest. “You can’t just… You don’t have a right to… Damn it, have you got a warrant or something?”

“Why? Have you done something that makes you think I’d need a warrant?”

“No. I…”

“Then why don’t you save us both a lot of time. Sit down. Let’s discuss a couple of things.”

“What things? I still don’t…”

“You look cold. Your clothes look like they’ve been wet.”

Pittman hurriedly thought of an acceptable explanation. “Yeah, a waiter spilled water on my jacket and pants and…”

The detective nodded. “Same thing happened to me two weeks ago. Not water, though. Linguini. You’d better change. Leave the door to your bedroom open a bit. We can talk while you get dry clothes. Also, you look like you could use a shave.”

“I’ve been trying to grow a beard,” Pittman lied. In the bedroom, listening to the detective’s voice through the slightly open door, he nervously took off his clothes, threw them in a hamper, then grabbed fresh underwear and socks from his bureau drawer.

He had just put on a pair of brown slacks when he saw the detective standing at the door.

“I wonder if you could tell me where you were last night.”

Feeling threatened, his nipples shrinking, Pittman reached for a shirt. “I was home for a while. Then I went for a walk.”

The detective opened the door wider, making Pittman feel even more threatened. “What time did you go for the walk?”

“Eleven.”

“And you came back…?”

“Around one.”

The detective raised his eyebrows. “Kind of dangerous to be out walking that late.”

“I’ve never had any trouble.”

“You’ve been lucky. Anybody see you?”

Pittman almost mentioned the cook at the diner, but then he realized that if the detective talked to the cook, the cook would mention the box Pittman had left, and the detective might find the handgun. Pittman’s permit allowed him to keep the.45 only in his apartment. It would look suspicious that he had hidden the weapon somewhere else.

“Nobody saw me.”

“Too bad. That makes it difficult.”

“For what? Look, I don’t like your barging in here, and I don’t like being questioned when I don’t know what this is all about.” Pittman couldn’t hide his agitation. “Who’s your superior at your precinct? What’s his telephone number?”

“Good idea. I think we ought to talk to him. Matter of fact, why don’t we both go down and talk to him in person?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“After I phone my lawyer.”

“Oh?” the detective said. “You think you need a lawyer now?”

“When the police start acting like the gestapo.”

“Aw.” The detective shook his head. “Now you’ve hurt my feelings. Put on your shoes. Get a coat. Let’s take a ride.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Pittman couldn’t get enough air.

“You didn’t go for a walk last night. You took a taxi up to an estate in Scarsdale and broke in.”

“I did what? That’s crazy.”

The detective reached into his suit coat pocket and brought out an envelope. He squinted at Pittman, opened the envelope, and removed a sheet of paper.

“What’s this?”

“A Xerox of a check,” the detective said.

Pittman’s stomach cramped when he saw that it was a copy of the check he had written to the taxi driver the previous night. How the hell had the police gotten it?

The detective’s expression became more sour as he explained. “An ambulance driver heading from Manhattan to the Scarsdale estate last night says a taxi followed him all the way. He got suspicious and wrote down the ID number on the light on the taxi’s roof. So after we were contacted about the break-in at the estate, we tracked down the cabbie. He says the guy who hired him to drive up to that estate wrote a check to pay for the ride. This check. With your signature at the bottom. With your name and address printed at the top.”